


Winging It

by PengyChan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Humor, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2020-07-08 20:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 88,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19875940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences.There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Should I be working on other WIPs? Yes. Is this a good idea? No. Anyway, time to put another asshole through the meat grinder and see if a lesson is learned.  
>  Apologies to Crowley and Aziraphale, who deserve all the best and Did Not Sign Up For This.
> 
> (Art by [ysmirel](https://ysmirel.tumblr.com/)!)

When an order comes from Metatron, it comes straight from God.

You don’t question the Voice of God. You don’t question the will of God. You never, ever, think for a moment to question God; you heed the orders, and follow them. And so they did, but it doesn’t mean they wanted to. It doesn’t mean they enjoyed it.

_It hurt it hurts it hurts please stop it stop it please–_

Michael personally cast out many a corrupted angel, back in the day - so many, in fact, that she seems to have been getting most of the credit from humans: Saint Michael the Archangel, who chased the Devil out of paradise.

But it had been simpler, _cleaner_ than this: they fought a battle, and the losers fell; they never had to hold them down to tear off their wings.

_Michael, please!_

But the Voice of God had spoken, and they had acted. Uriel and Sandalphon held him down, averting their eyes, while Michael grabbed and yanked cut and _tore._ Once the deed was done and Gabriel was cast out, he was no angel nor demon; no wings singed black by fire. Only red, as he bled the way humans do.

_Human._

Uriel and Sandalphon haven’t spoken since, and neither has Michael. It was God’s will, even if they do wonder - a _ll of us took that decision, why was Gabriel only to take the fall, why were we not punished_ \- they never question. 

You never, _ever,_ question God, and Michael does not.

Or tries not to.

* * *

His back throbs where his wings used to be, a pain unlike anything he’s ever felt throughout his existence. The clothing covering it is all wet-- with what, he dares not think. He knows, deep down, but if he doesn’t consciously think it, then he can pretend it’s not real. He keeps walking, putting one foot after the other and trying not to sway, through the dark, deserted street.

Rain, perhaps it’s the rain, and never mind if there isn’t a cloud in the sky and the cobblestones are dry. Never mind the stars are perfectly visible, if so far away and forever beyond his reach. It has to be rain. It cannot be blood. Angels don’t _bleed,_ therefore he is not bleeding and stars are _not,_ after all, forever beyond his reach. He’s only… temporarily inconvenienced. And he needs--  
_not rest never that angels don’t need rest_  
\--a little time to regain some bearing of his surroundings, that’s all. 

Said surroundings are, at least, somewhat familiar; he’s been there several times before, he knows what direction to take, where to go. He can think of no other place, no one else he can turn to. He can think of very little, really, including the _reason_ why he does need help. 

The establishment is there, closed as it often is, but he should have known. It is night, and humans are inactive at night. Aziraphale has become so much like humans, taking up so many of their habits; it makes sense he does that as well. 

There is a sign at the door, detailing the opening times, but Gabriel cannot read it. His vision blurs, his knees fold, and he half-collapses right in the doorway. He leans his head on the cold stone, shuts his eyes; the pain grows duller, more distant, and the world goes from dark to pitch black. The few people passing him by in the early hours of the morning think nothing of the figure huddled there; too many rough sleepers in London to pay much attention to each one.

No one notices, on the back of his dark jumper, two bloodstains that look very much like wings.


	2. Psalm 91:4 - Refuge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think I have an actual plan, ineffable or not, for where this fic is going, think again. 'Winging it’ is not just a title: it’s precisely what I’m doing.

Aziraphale had no intention whatsoever to open the shop that day. 

He hadn’t even planned to stay in it, because a new Korean restaurant had just opened in Holborn and he was _dying_ to try it, metaphorically speaking. Normally it would take some twelve minutes via the Central like - or the Piccadilly line if he felt like walking for approximately one minute and fifty-seven seconds longer from his shop - but that day, according to the radio, there were severe delays on all Tube lines due to signalling issues. 

‘Signalling issues’ meant, in that one specific case, that all screens were inexplicably showing obscene phrases while loudspeakers refused to broadcast any announcements, opting to blast out _I'm In Love With My Car_ at full volume instead. Engineers had yet to figure out how to make it stop, as turning off all power hadn’t worked. Signals meant for train drivers kept blinking quickly, spelling out SOS in morse code over and over.

Aziraphale was… _reasonably_ certain it had been entirely Crowley’s work, both because it would fit his style and because, the previous evening, he _did_ tell him not to bother with the Tube. 

“No need to get underground, Angel. I’ll come pick you up in the morning,” he’d said. 

And now he would be late, most likely, lamenting the insane traffic he’d be caught in after forgetting, somehow, that traffic jams tend to happen when London’s public underground transport grinds to a complete halt.

Would he ever learn better? Aziraphale rather hoped not. He found it endearing, although he wouldn’t subject Crowley to the humiliation of being told as much to his face; and, right now, it gave him some extra time to pop into one of his favorite bakeries and have a bit of a late breakfast before Crowley got there. He’d get an extra croissant for him to try, he thought as he went to open the door and stepped out. Maybe he’d eventually get him to _chew_ his food instead of swallowing it whole like a snake, wouldn’t that be--

Before he could finish that thought, Aziraphale fell. Azira _fell,_ if you will. He stumbled, really, on _something_ right at the doorway - a heap of clothes, it looked like. Not as bad as a fall from Heaven would be, but the meeting with the pavement was still an unpleasant experience. 

“Ooow! What was-- oh. Oh dear.”

What he’d mistaken for a heap of clothes left at his doorstep was, in fact, a heap of clothes. Only with a body in the clothes. Not the _dead_ kind of body, hopefully. But really, it was a bit worrying how someone stumbling over him hadn’t even made him stir. 

_Oh please, sir, don’t be dead, because then I’ll want to miracle you back to life and that is frowned upon without permission. Not that I know precisely what my standing with Heavenly authority is at the moment, but I’d really prefer not to meddle with it any more than necessary._

Lifting himself from the pavement - he’d miracle the smudges off his clothes later - Aziraphale went to crouch next to the man, put a hand on his shoulder, and shook him. “Sir? Sir, are you-- oh.”

Aziraphale had always found the smell of blood uniquely unpleasant and if not for his angelic nature, the sight of his own reddened palm would have made him feel physically sick. But at least the man was alive, because he had felt _life,_ beating steady in his ribcage. Who knew how he’d come to be hurt like that - stabbed, perhaps, knife crime in London was getting quite awful - but he’d come to the right place. He’d heal him, and be on his way. 

A quick glance - no, no close enough to see anything yet; but oh, how many people had walked past without even noticing him? - and Aziraphale lifted his hand to heal the man. Only that he chose that moment to stir weakly, to turn, and the blessing he’d been about to utter died in Azirapale’s throat when he saw his ashen-pale face. Or at least, a good part of it.

It was Gabriel, and not the Gabriel who occasionally delivered him a nice dinner when he was peckish but too enthralled by a book to get out to a restaurant. It was the _Archangel_ Gabriel, passed out at his doorstep. Wounded, _bleeding_ and absolutely, entirely, impossibly-- human. 

No. No, it couldn’t be. It was unheard of - surely, he was wrong. It was only someone who looked an awful lot like him, Aziraphale thought. But as he reached for his face, and gingerly pulled up his eyelid, he found himself looking at a familiar, distinctive purplish eye. Only that now the pupil shrank at the light, and he made a choking sound, still unconscious. His brow was covered in cold sweat, hair sticking to it. 

_The blood on his back. Where his wings would be._

Celestial nature or not, Aziraphale found himself feeling… vaguely sick. Not sick enough to return his rather delicious dinner to the world, but enough to decide he could do without croissant that morning.

“Gabriel?” he called out, mind reeling. There was no reply, except for a shuddering breath when he turned him, accidentally putting pressures on… whatever had been done to his back. Whatever had been done to his wings. 

_You know what’s been done to his wings._

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

Ah, of course, the curious chap. There is always a curious chap - no curious enough to check on the man motionless in a shop’s doorway, but enough to wonder when a second man is kneeling over him and it might already be too late. With a brief shake of his hand, Aziraphale miracled the blood on his palm away and turned to glance back. He smiled. 

“All is going wonderfully,” he said, causing the man to pause and blink, his expression turning vacant. “Actually, if you could help me bring this gentleman inside and then forget everything that happened to go your merry way, that would be brilliant…”

* * *

Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Hell, looked displeased.

In itself, that was nothing out of the ordinary: perpetual brooding was only fitting their position, after all. It would be a very cold day in Hell when demons went around looking pleased, and that was not the day: temperature was holding steady at around 62 degrees Celsius, which would be 143 degrees Fahrenheit for fellows across the pond. Not quite the fiery burning pit mortals imagined, but still hotter than the highest temperature ever registered on Earth, despite humans’ clear determination to match it in the near future.

However, something _was_ slightly out of the ordinary. Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Hell, looked _extremely_ displeased.

“An angel fell.”

“So it’s been reported, my Lord.”

“And it’s not here.”

“No, my Lord.”

“Why. Is it not. Here.”

Beelzebub growled. The flies around their head buzzed. Dagon looked at Hastur. Hastur looked… very uncomfortable. Good. He squirmed. Even better. 

“I… I don’t know, my Lord. I only heard whispers, you know they never speak the names of the Fallen again--”

“Because they’re not our names anymore,” Beelzebub said with an impatient wave of their hand. “We will name it. It is ours. All the Fallen are ours.”

“But it should have-- landed here,” Dagon spoke up. “All the Fallen do.”

“Maybe it’s not Fallen?”

Two pairs of eyes, plus the fragmented ones of several flies, turned back to Hastur. 

“I mean, cast out of Heaven, but didn’t turn up in Hell? Maybe it fell, but didn’t Fall.”

A fallen angel, yet not Fallen. It would be unprecedented, an amusing puzzle to solve… and Beelzebub _hated_ amusing puzzles to solve almost as much as they despised fly paper. 

“If it was cast out of Heaven, it’s _ours._ The other side doesn’t get to change up the rules now - I demand an explanation, and a new soldier for Hell,” they snapped, and stood. Not much of a difference in terms of height, but it did make Hastur step back reverently. “Bring me the Messenger,” Beelzebub ordered, their voice a low buzz.

Hastur blinked.

“... The phone, for Satan’s sake,” Dagon snapped. “Bring us the _phone._ ”

* * *

_“Come ooooooooooon.”_

Crowley’s phone rang while he was in the middle of a long groan, forehead firmly pressed against the wheel. The result was a long, continuous honk that was lost in the midsts of dozens more long, continuous honks. Bloody traffic.

“I don’t deserve this,” Crowley mumbled, ignoring the fact he was the cause behind all of it and perhaps he did, after all deserve some of it. Why had he done that, anyway? He didn’t really _have_ to do anything, with Hell doing its best to forget he even existed and thus not sending out any orders anymore. It was a matter of mere habit, at that point. Everyone is supposed to have at least one bad habit, demons most of all.

Maybe he should take on smoking, but Aziraphale would so protest the smell and-- ah, right. Aziraphale. Phone. He was late, wasn’t he? With a sigh, Crowley tapped the screen to take the call, face still burrowed against the wheel - though he muted the honk for the sake of being able to speak.

“Bit of traffic here, Angel. I’ll be there in-- give me half a hour, and--”

“I, uh, think we might have to reschedule.”

Aziraphale, suggesting they delay trying out a brand new restaurant? That alone set off more alarm bells than a gang of chimps in charge of putting out a grease fire. Or Boris Johnson in charge of managing Brexit, which was basically the same thing. 

Crowley immediately sat up straight, turning his full attention to the phone. “What happened?”

“Nothing! It’s just... oh, I suppose something _did_ happen. You see, I was about to walk out - you know that really good bakery across the road? It opened where that Patisserie Valerie used to be, a small independent business, and they make the most delicious croissants. They use less butter than they would in Paris, they’re a bit more like an Italian cornetto, and I thought you’d--”

“Angel.”

“Right, right-- I’m getting side tracked. As I was saying, it’s a small independent business and they have it so hard these days, I figure that if needed I could give some help--”

Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes behind dark lenses and drove the car forward for a grand total of three meters before stopping again. It was the greatest gain he’d made in fifteen minutes.

“Aziraphale. I am in the middle of one of the worst traffic congestion this city has ever seen--”

“Oh, I _do_ wonder who caused it. Clearly the work of a wily demon who did not pause to consider consequences. Or did he?”

“That’s _entirely_ beside the point,” Crowley protested. “What I’m saying is, we _are_ going to that restaurant. We can miracle the bakery some clients if need be, no reason to reschedule--”

“Ah, it’s not about that.”

“... No?”

“Gabriel is here.”

Oh. That arse - the utter and complete bellend who had tried to have _his_ angel destroyed in Hellfire. The memory of his words as he believed he was sending him to his complete annihilation - _Shut your stupid mouth and die already_ \- was enough to make Crowley hiss in fury. He’d have been worried, too, if not for the fact Aziraphale’s blabbing about bakeries wasn’t the sign of someone in distress or in imminent danger. And he probably wasn’t listening to the call - maybe he was outside the shop.

“Fine, fine, change of plans - we’re meeting at rendez-vous point number 3. _Then_ we’re going--”

“Listen, it’s best if we reschedule and you come here. Gabriel--”

“Has no business being there. Tell him to go to Heaven,” Crowley snapped. 

“Well, I don’t think he-- can.”

“... Wait. What?”

“I’m not sure why-- well, this is unprecedented.”

Crowley blinked, mind struggling to grasp what he’d just heard, and he didn’t even realize immediately that the line of cars ahead of him had begun moving. The car behind him suddenly honked, and Crowley waved his hand. The BMW’s engine died in a sputter of sparks and smoke, and the Bentley moved another couple of meters.

“Did he - Fall?” he asked. It seemed absurd - no one had Fallen in so long - and he was too surprised to have time to feel any sort of satisfaction over it. 

“Yes and… no.”

“... Did you drink?”

“Only _tea._ Just… try to get here.”

“All right. Then we’re heading out, because whatever happened to him we’re not rescheduling.”

“Crowley, he’s in quite a state. I can’t just walk out and leave him here in the shop like this.”

“Of course not. First you kick him out.”

“Crowley.”

A sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll come see what this is about.”

“Thank you. I am quite confused--”

“So I can kick him out.”

“Not while he’s like this! It wouldn’t be-- nice.”

“I’m a demon, _not_ being nice is usually my thing. And _he_ tried to destroy you.”

A pause. “... When he’s better, surely, it wouldn’t hurt.”

Crowley grinned. “Now you’re talking,” he said before ending the call and advancing another bloody meter, wondering just what the Heaven was going on.

* * *

“That is _classified_ information.”

“Don’t _classified_ me, Michael.”

“It is policy and you _know_ it.”

“You were always ready to throw _policy_ out of the window when it suited you, though. Or else this back channel wouldn’t exist.” 

Beelzebub’s voice was odious as always, buzzing through her brain, oozing malice. Michael clenched her jaw, but had nothing to retort to that other than empty phrases and falsehoods. 

Gabriel was always best at those - _“There are no back channels, Michael”_ \- and that was why, between the two of them, he was the messenger and she was the warrior. They worked well together. But Gabriel was no longer there, nor one of them: for all intents and purposes, the Archangel Gabriel had ceased to exist the moment he’d been cast out of Heaven. His duties were divided up between herself, Uriel and Sandalphon; his name would be spoken no more.

“I know one of yours fell,” Beelzebub was going on. “Don’t bother denying it. What I do not know is why has it not showed up here, in its rightful place. It’s been a long time since we got a new Fallen. We’re ready to throw it a party.”

“With sulphur involved, I imagine.”

“Our side quite enjoys sulphur.”

_Not Gabriel. He would hate every second of it - but there is no more Gabriel, is there?_

No Archangel Gabriel. No back channels. Michael shifted the phone on her other hand, trying to block out the memories of cries and pleas, ripping noises and ragged sobs. 

“Plus, since when do you concern yourself with what a demon would enjoy? This one is no longer your concern, and given that Crowley has gone _native--_ yes, Hastur? Ligur who? Oh, yes. Him. Given that we lost _two_ demons last week, it seems only fair we claim this new one.”

And do _what_ with him? Michael’s mind went back to the trial of the demon Crowley, of the test they had made to ensure what she had brought truly was holy water. She remembered the usher being thrown in, screaming, pleading, asking what it had _done_ to deserve destruction.

_Wrong place, wrong time._

_Please! Please! No!_

Michael hadn’t thought much of it, then; it was the kind of thing demons would do, and she would not flinch for the fate of a lowly hellish creature. Mercy was not for them. But now…

_It hurt it hurts it hurts please stop it stop it please– Michael, please!_

“He’s not yours.” Michael’s voice rang out suddenly, sharp as glass - sharp enough to make Beelzebub fall into a confused silence for a few moments. When they spoke again, their voice was a low buzz full of anger… and what might have been genuine curiosity. 

“Oh? And how come?”

“Because he’s not like _you._ ”

“... Do I hear an Archangel defending the honor of a demon?”

“He’s not a demon,” Michael snapped, causing them to fall silent again on the other side of the line. “He’s not one of yours. You can’t _have_ him.”

Another few moments of silence, followed by furious buzzing. “We’ll _see_ about that,” Beelzebub seethed. “I’m done wasting time with you. I demand a meeting with Gabriel, at least he can--”

“He is unavailable,” Michael snapped, and ended the call before throwing the phone on the ground and crushing it under her heel.

* * *

After putting the phone down, Aziraphale could only sit and… well, wait. 

The shop was silent, the way he liked, except for the slow, regular breathing of someone sleeping in the middle of the room, where he’d miracled a carpet into a mattress to lean Gabriel onto. His breathing hadn’t been that quiet only ten minutes earlier, when he and the… volunteer had laid him down on his stomach: it had been labored, short gasps and shuddering exhales.

Once alone with him again, Aziraphale had miracled his clothes away and he’d seen… precisely what he’d expected to see, really, but that didn’t mean he’d been prepared. 

On Gabriel’s back, over the shoulder blades, there were two gaping, bleeding wounds. Something had been _torn_ from there, leaving behind a mess of mangled flesh and, Aziraphale was rather sure, the tiniest glimpse of exposed bone. It was unsightly and quite serious, but healing it was, for an angel, a simple enough matter. 

And he had healed them: a gesture over the wounds, and they closed… but marks had remained, dark and ragged scar tissue where angelic wings had been torn away. Those were not the kind of wounds dealt by a mortal, or a mortal weapon; those were wounds only a supernatural being - angel or demon - may have caused. It wasn’t like anything mortal _could_ harm an angel like this, and of course the missing wings were only a part of it.

Along with them, Gabriel had been stripped of his celestial nature. It seemed impossible, but proof was before his eyes. How could that have happened? Who had done such a thing? And why--?

“Nnnhh…”

Gabriel had groaned, shifted weakly. He hadn’t lifted his head, despite having been healed; Aziraphale suspected he had not yet adjusted to his new condition. Going from angel to mortal would probably feel like going from the power of a nuclear power plant to that of a depleted battery in energy saving mode. 

“Gabriel,” he’d called out, crouching next to him. Gabriel’s barely open eyes flickered towards him, the only part of him to move, cheek still pressed against the mattress. He seemed to struggle to put him into focus, but then there was something - a spark of recognition. He’d known who he was, at least. “You’re safe here,” Aziraphale had said, like he had the slightest idea of what or _who_ had caused it. His shop didn’t even have the defenses to keep a crazed old nipple-counting witch hunter out while he was on a conference call with the Voice of God. Maybe he should take precautions, given the fate he and Crowley barely avoided by deception.

_If this had been a trap, I would have been fooled entirely._

Gabriel had worked his jaw, but not a word came out. He’d tried to lift his head, and Aziraphale pushed it down. “No, no. Don’t try to get up,” he’d said, and glanced briefly at his back again. “... What happened?”

For a moment there was no reaction, then Gabriel’s eyes shifted back on him. He looked dazed, but this time he managed to reply. “My wings,” he rasped. “Can’t feel my wings.”

“Yes, that would be because-- er.” He’d made a vague gesture and tried to change the subject. He ought not to feel sorry for him, after what he tried to pull with Hellfire, but ah, he _was_ soft. Maybe it was a good thing that Crowley was coming. He was the one there when Gabriel had tried to destroy him, after all. He would have more sense than him. Maybe they _should_ kick him out before he caused them problems. “Who did this to you?” he had asked instead.

Part of him had expected the name of… some sort of demon, perhaps; for what reason they would do this to him he couldn’t begin to imagine, because it just wasn’t how they operated, but-

“Michael,” Gabriel rasped, and Aziraphale blinked down at him, not comprehending. 

“Do you want me to call Michael?” he’d asked. Just what he needed, dealing with her now. Was she going to blame him for this? Of course she would. He had no intention to drop by in Heaven and face her, but maybe a quick phone call--

“Michael--!”

Gabriel had tried to rise, faltered, and fell heavily on his side. His eyes were wide open, staring at him and yet at nothing, chest rising and falling quickly. It was so uncharacteristic of him that it had taken Aziraphale several moments to recognize it for what it was: absolute, blind panic.

_“No no no no no--”_

“Shush,” Aziraphale had said, and he’d held out a hand in front of his face. The panic had faded and his features smoothed in a vacant expression. “Now, you’re going to sleep. And you’re going to have--” _the most wonderful dream,_ he would usually say in such cases, but he’d held back. All right, he may be soft, but even _he_ could tell Gabriel did not deserve wonderful dreams. “... A reasonably pleasant dream,” he’d finished lamely.

_Oh, Crowley would be so disappointed._

And Gabriel had gone to sleep, sure enough, naked from the waist up and scars on his back in plain sight. Aziraphale had put a blanket on him - so he wouldn’t get cold, he thought, but the truth was that looking at those scars made him uncomfortable - and then he’d called Crowley. 

And now he _waited._ As the minutes ticked by, Aziraphale leaned his chin on his hand, staring at the still, sleeping form of what had been an Archangel until very, _very_ recently. He thought back of his expression, the name that had left him, the terror in his voice. 

_Michael. Did Michael do this to him?_

The thought seemed absurd, but then again he’d never truly expected her to gift Hell some Holy Water to destroy a demon; he had never truly expected his own side - _no, not my side anymore_ \- to try and destroy _him_ with Hellfire. He’d never known them as well as he thought he did, and how could he? He was on Earth all along while they stayed in Heaven, pulling the strings of a world they did not understand or care about.

_But I was the odd one out. The curious fellow who’d stay on Earth rather than take promotions to go back upstairs - Gabriel was one of them._

Why turn on him? Why cast him out? Why make him _human,_ instead of having him Fall the traditional way - and why would they be so _brutal_ about it? What reason could there be? His thoughts kept going in circles and oh, that was going to give him such a headache, wasn’t it?

_Well, for Heaven's sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors._

Crowley had quoted Gabriel’s words to him with a shrill, mocking voice over a glass of wine; while the thought of what they’d barely escaped was rather chilling, it had made him laugh. It made him chuckle now, some tension leaving him. Crowley was on his way, however slowly in the traffic, and it made him… a bit less worried. They’d figure something out, they always did. 

They had worked out how to face the wrath of Heaven and Hell and come out unscathed; dealing with an ex angel who hadn’t fallen as much as landed squarely on his face on Earth shouldn’t a huge problem. 

He wasn’t wrong on that. It would turn out to be a huge _annoyance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart."  
> Psalm 91:4


	3. Job 39:13 - Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, someone’s in for a rude awakening.

“... What the Heaven.”

“What the Heaven indeed,” Aziraphale murmured, but Crowley barely heard him; he was too busy staring down at dark, jagged scars over Gabriel’s shoulder blades while he rested, motionless, on a mattress on the ground. Those had been open wounds, Aziraphale had said, before he’d healed them and miracled away the blood; Crowley was rather glad he hadn’t been there to see the mess. Maybe all that trouble with traffic had been a blessing in disguise. 

Well. Not a _literal_ blessing, of course, he didn’t do those unless absolutely called for - which was to say, not unless Aziraphale asked - but still, a lucky coincidence. Even without witnessing the worst of it, seeing the scars was enough to make his plan of grabbing him and kicking him all the way out of the bookstore, whether Aziraphale agreed or not, seem… a little less viable. 

In _theory,_ he could still do it. Gabriel deserved it and if he’d simply become a demon the way he had, then he wouldn’t have held back. But he wasn’t a demon, was he? He was human, in a bad shape, with marks on his back that made Crowley mightily uncomfortable every time his gaze fell on them. His own wings - which were always there, if not necessarily on the same plane of existence, black as coal but whole and functioning - ached at the thought. And yet...

_Shut your stupid mouth and die already._

_Maybe just a couple of swift kicks, or a bout of intestinal parasites..._

_None of this would have worked out if you weren't, at heart, just a little bit a good person._

In the end, Aziraphale’s voice in the back of his head was stronger, as always. Biting his tongue to keep himself from cursing aloud, Crowley tore his gaze away from Gabriel’s back to look at Aziraphale. “What were they thinking?” he asked, knowing full well his angel likely had no clue whatsoever. “Wasn’t he the golden boy? And-- they let _Satan_ keep his wings, for Hell’s sake.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I don’t have the foggiest idea, I am afraid. He didn’t tell me much of anything. Well, _couldn’t_ tell me much of anything. But I think… I think Michael did this.”

 _Uuugh,_ Crowley thought. “Michael’s a wanker,” he muttered, glancing down again. He had little doubt that Michael could subdue Gabriel if so she chose; she was a _warrior,_ the one who had personally cast Lucifer out of Heaven during the first War, while Gabriel had always been the bureaucrat and messenger. And a poor one, too - official accounts glossed over how badly he’d freaked poor Maryam out with the Annunciation. Still… “Can’t have been _just_ her decision.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed. Deciding to destroy him - well, that was one thing. He wasn’t precisely high up, and he supposed that what he had done _did_ amount to treason. Gabriel was… not quite as high up as it gets, obviously, but still a big name. “No angel could just do something like this to _him_ without consequences. It must have been an order from above. I just can’t imagine why.”

Crowley made a face. “And it’s been just a week. They turned on him quicker than a traffic light,” he muttered, and slid a foot beneath Gabriel, turning him on his back so that he wouldn’t have to look at those scars any longer. There was no reaction; he was out like a light, eyes shut as his head rolled over his shoulder, face pale. “Look at that, two nipples. Shadwell would be relieved.” Or disappointed, come to think of it. “Is he unconscious, or asleep?” 

“Ah, uh… asleep. I made sure he slept - he really needed it.”

“And gave him the most wonderful dream?” Crowley joked. Aziraphale shifted, causing him to groan. 

“Not the _most_ wonderf-- just _reasonably_ pleasant,” Aziraphale defended himself. Crowley rolled his eyes before snapping his fingers to conjure up some water that was _decidedly_ not holy.

Time to wake up the sleeping beauty and find out what in the seven Heavens was going on.

* * *

Gabriel had never, in the entirety of his existence up to that day, slept. 

He never had any need to; angels do not get tired and consequently need no rest. He was rarely idle at all, with the work of millions of angels to oversee across the universe on a daily basis, and it was fine with him. Idleness bred laziness, and he was meant to be an example of virtue. No place for that in Heaven, as there was no place for _any_ of the seven deadly sins.

_He attempted to take God’s judgment upon himself. A crime born of pride. Seize him._

Metatron’s voice thundered somewhere in the back of his mind and almost, _almost_ made it through to his consciousness along with everything that followed - his sentence and the punishment, the hands holding him down and the stony faces and the _pain_ \- but it did not. A reasonably pleasant dream was what Aziraphale had bestowed upon him, and a reasonably pleasant dream was what he was having. 

“You doodled on the report again,” Michael was muttering, raising an eyebrow at him in that way of hers that showed polite annoyance and hid her amusement. 

Gabriel shrugged. “There was a lot of blank space.”

“There is a lot of blank space everywhere here, but you don’t see me writing on the walls.”

“Only because I haven’t caught you in the act yet.”

“Very funny.” A roll of her eyes, and Michael looked back at the sheet. “What is it supposed to be, anyway? One of those primates on Earth?”

“It’s Sandalphon. He has a sandal in one hand and a phone in the other.”

A quiet stare. Gabriel shrugged again, grinning. “I think it’s funny.”

“... Of course you would.” A quick half-smile, and Michael placed the sheet in the folder under her arm. “Anything else? No more forms?”

“Uh, no,” Gabriel muttered, leaning an elbow on the form he’d actually finished filling in. Best to miracle the doodles off them before handing them over going forward. Or give them to someone who’d appreciate his frankly flawless sense of humor. Sandalphon usually did, only that he was a little bit sensitive about his name.

“All right. I’ll see you at the meeting.”

Once alone again, Gabriel picked up the form and looked down at it. From his serious expression as he tapped the pen against his chin, anyone looking would have thought he was giving some serious consideration to important matters. And in a way, he was. How many flies were _usually_ buzzing around Beelzebub’s head - a couple dozens? He couldn’t remember. They had last met about a century earlier, so he’d have to go on a guess.

A couple dozens, then. Gabriel clicked the pen, and began adding dots around the head of a caricature with red eyes and long fangs. Did flies have fangs? They probably didn’t have fangs and Beelzebub didn't either. Maybe he should send an official letter _downstairs,_ just to ask. They were reserved for important communications, and the Lord of the Flies would probably answer with insults, but--

“Wakey wakey!”

“Crowley, wait--”

Something cold suddenly hit him, splashed over him, and in an instant everything - the form and the doodle and the pen in his hand, the desk he sat at and the reassuring whiteness all around him - was gone. Gabriel opened his eyes, blinking out water and sputtering, to see old dusty bookshelves all around him, and a demon towering over him with a grin. What in the world…?

“Hey, Gabe,” the demon Crowley said, grin widening. “Tell me, how did the landing go?”

* * *

"Hell _can't_ claim him." 

Uriel spoke with the utter certainty of someone who’s stating the tenets of the universe, and with more than a hint of outrage at the mere idea. Which was how they all spoke, really; there was an abundance of certainties in Heaven. However Michael couldn’t help but think that, over the course of the past week, a good chunk of them had been crumpled, and tossed in the waste bin.

Yes, in _theory,_ Hell had no claim on humans over the course of their lives; they could try to influence them, both sides did, but that was about the scope of it. In _theory,_ the fact this one particular human had been an angel until only a short while ago should make no difference. Not until his human life, that ridiculously short lifespan, ran its course. 

But, in theory, none of this should be happening either. The Great Plan was supposed to be the same as the Ineffable plan and they were in the right to try all they could to see it through, following the one and only plan they’d ever known of. In theory, they had done everything right. 

And yet, they had failed. It was disconcerting and downright worrisome; without certainties, you start questioning. And questioning was dangerous… but apparently, so was sticking to the plan.

_Please, no! Please! I did everything right! I followed the Plan! I did everything right!_

“Of course it can’t claim him,” Michael spoke, trying to ignore Gabriel’s screams in the back of her mind. She could at least pretend to be certain of that, even if the world should have ended a few days earlier and then… didn’t. It kept existing, a world where the Antichrist refused to bring forth the Armageddon; where Holy water did not kill a demon and Hellfire did not kill an angel; where obedience was harshly punished and rebellion was not. "He didn't Fall the way they did."

"Right. It's more like what happened with Adam and Steve,” Sandalphon agreed.

Uriel frowned a little. "Wasn't it... Ava? Ada?"

"Maybe, something like that. Never met them,” he said, and made a face. Sandalphon didn’t have strong feelings for humans one way or another, but the few times he’d actively interacted with them, things hadn’t generally gone very well for the mortals - Sodom and Gomorrah being the prime example.

To be _entirely_ fair anyone would have been more than slightly miffed in his place. Get on Earth with another couple of angels in human disguise to see if the city is redeemable, get hospitality from some weirdo called Lot, and suddenly a mob is outside demanding that Lot lets them _meet_ his guests. A _biblical_ meet and greet, so to speak; not the sort where you sit down to study the Bible, clearly, but rather the kind where you plainly do not sit down for several days afterwards.

If you’re human, of course, and Sandalphon was not human. He was an angel with very little understanding of humans, their customs and their base instincts, but even he could tell that trying to force said base instincts on anybody unwilling was bad enough to spectacularly fail God’s test - regardless of the shape or form of your intended target. 

And _failure_ came with a hefty price tag, which was why Sandalphon took very great care to never fail. They all did, and they had never failed to not fail, not once in six-thousand years… until they had, in some way and for some reason they didn’t even understand. 

But only _one_ of them had paid the price. Someone who’d been loyal and obedient and steadfast in his duties, to see that everything went according to the Great Plan and ended with the triumph of the Heavenly forces, the triumph of good. And some thanks he got for his trouble.

A dangerous thought, that. Almost unthinkable. And yet Michael suspected she wasn’t the only one to battle with it, or else that little meeting wouldn’t be happening at all and they would have moved on, forgetting Gabriel’s name like they had forgotten those of the Fallen so long ago. 

“It’s not like with the Fallen,” Uriel spoke up, as though she’d just read her mind. She was tapping a finger on the table, staring at it rather than look up at them. “God must have a plan for him. Some _sort_ of plan.”

“Ineffable plan?”

“Perhaps.”

“So we don’t know what it is, and Gabriel doesn’t know what it is,” Sandalphon muttered, folding his hands on the table. “What will he do? Out there as a human, alone, with no _plan_ to follow?”

Michael held back a sigh. “God might give him a sign as to what he should do. I suppose--”

“We could check on him,” Uriel spoke up suddenly, causing her to trail off and turn to look at her. Her finger was still tapping on the table. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find him.”

“There isn’t supposed to be _any_ unnecessary contact with--”

“With the Fallen, no. Except that we did have contact, and we were not the ones who got cast out. And Aziraphale - he’s been _fraternizing_ with one for millennia, and he received no punishment either. But either way, Gabriel is not a Fallen. He is a human - contact with him is not prohibited.”

“Unless it is and we don’t _know it,_ Uriel,” Michael snapped. She hated that uncertainty, the fear of doing the wrong thing without knowing it. She wanted nothing more than having normalcy back, with Gabriel among them and the certainty of being in the right in the great scheme of things. Until the botched Armageddon, back when they had the Great Plan to stick to, all of their choices had always been so easy they were hardly even choices. “And we might pay the price.”

“Then I will, if it comes to that,” Uriel said, and finally looked up. Still, she did not look directly at Michael. She was staring at the wall beside her, as though she saw something there no one else could. “You were not here, when Aziraphale stepped in the Hellfire.”

Michael nodded. “No. But I was there when the demon Crowley splashed in Holy Water asking for a _towel_. I know what happened - nothing.”

“No, something did happen. Here. With Aziraphale,” Uriel replied. The light tapping on the table stopped. “He _blew_ Hellfire towards us. Barely missed, and only because we retreated.”

“More like scrambled,” Sandalphon muttered, sounding more than slightly embarrassed.

Michael frowned. “Hellfire would have destroyed you if it touched you. Anyone would have, as you put it, _scrambled_ in your pla--”

“Gabriel threw out his arms,” Uriel cut her off, causing Michael to turn, taken aback. Uriel finally looked up from the table to meet Michael’s gaze. “When the fire came towards us. He threw out his arms in front of us, to pull us back with him. You see, this is what’s gnawing at me. It’s not only that he was the only one to face punishment for something we all did.” Her features twisted in something bitter that might have looked like a smile to the untrained eye, and yet was anything but. “He _shielded_ us. And we tore out his wings.”

“No. I did.” Michael’s voice was collected, distant. In the back of her mind there was the glint of the blade, the pulling and tearing, the cries and thrashing as he tried to escape. He’d suffered, but he hadn’t bled until the end, until he was an angel no longer. “I tore out his wings.”

 _And I pray I’m not made to tear out yours._ If the order came, she… wasn’t sure she’d obey, not again. It was a terrifying thought, disobeying God. Never before had it entered her mind. 

“We held him down for you. We’re in,” Sandalphon said quietly, and that sealed the matter. 

None of them paused to consider that maybe, just _maybe,_ Gabriel may not be happy to see them.

* * *

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s not happy to see me.”

“Crowley, please--”

“I mean, it was _cute_ how he tried to smite me like he can still do that, but…”

“My dear boy--!”

“Fine, fine. Shutting up. For now.”

Huddled against a wall, a blanket tangled around his legs, Gabriel struggled to even grasp their words. He could have if he focused, probably, but there was so much going on, too much. The pain was gone, at least that, but there were the rush of blood in his ears and the rhythmic pumping in his chest, the ache in his throat caused by the scream that had left him, the way the room seemed to spin around him, how his body shivered against the cold water his skin - so many sensations he was unaccustomed to, and so many other things, _familiar_ things, that were missing. Things he dared not name.

_You know what is missing._

Two pairs of hands grabbing him, holding him down. The weight on him, the grasp, the glint of a blade and the plea in his ear.

_“Be still. You’ll make it easier, Gabriel. Please, be still.”_

But he hadn’t been still, had he?

“Can you stand?” Aziraphale’s voice cut through his frantic thoughts, snapped him out of the memory. He looked up to see him holding out a hand, towering over him. He stared at it, but didn’t take it. 

“It’s not permanent,” was all he could say, his voice raspy. 

“Wonderful,” the demon muttered. “All the more reason to be quick and kick you while it lasts.”

Aziraphale ignored his comment and nodded. A gesture of his hand, and the cold water soaking Gabriel’s hair and skin dried up; a white shirt appeared to cover his torso.

“That’s good to know. Care to tell us what happened?”

Oh no, no, absolutely not. If he allowed himself to think back of it, to remember what had happened from the moment Metatron had spoken to the instant he’d blacked out before Aziraphale’s store, Gabriel was fairly certain he’d go insane. He stood on shaky legs, feeling ridiculously faint, and let himself drop on the nearest chair before shaking his head. 

“... All right. You don’t have to.”

“What? No, no, he absolutely has to!”

“This may not be the right moment--”

“It is for me!” The demon - Crowley - stepped forward. Gabriel tried to sit up straight, so that he wouldn’t tower over him so much, but his head spun and he could barely lift it. “Look, I was nice enough not to kick you into the stratosphere, so how about you thank me by explaining--”

A sudden rumbling noise caused Crowly to trail off, taken aback. Both he and Aziraphale could only stare as Gabriel let out a groan, hands folding over his stomach. It took another grumble for Crowley to realize what it was… and when he did, he laughed. It was just too funny, he couldn't help it.

Of course, Gabriel didn’t laugh, too stuck-up to see the humor of the situation. He glared up at him, almost folded in two. His features twisted in agony. “You– you did this, demon! What is it?”

Before Crowely could reply that he’d be doing so much worse if he felt like hurting him, Aziraphale spoke. 

“I believe it is hunger, Gabriel.”

A confused look. “Hunger?”

“Happens when _humans_ go hungry,” Crowley supplied helpfully, with some frankly unnecessary emphasis on the word 'human'. Aziraphale did his best to ignore it. Very little seeed to make sense, and keeping a cool head would be easier if his demon and his former superior didn’t keep squabbling like especially ill-tempered roosters. 

“When was last time you ate? Or drank?” 

That gained him a disgusted look. “You know full well I do not–” 

“You no longer get a choice, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale cut him off, calm but not going out of his way to be sympathetic. From what he’d seen in the past six-thousand years there were plenty of drawbacks that came with being human… but getting to enjoy food was not one of them. “If you need something filling, I could recommend–”

“I refuse to sully my celestial body with gross matter!” he protested, gaining himself a sigh from Aziraphale and a very loud snort from Crowley. 

“I haaaaate to break the news, Gabe,” the demon said as everything in his voice, expression and body language spelled absolute delight over the situation, “but right now you and your body are about as celestial as Schubert’s Ave Maria sung by a band of drunk capuchin monkeys.”

If looks could discorporate, Crowley wouldn’t have discorporated at all because Gabriel was terrible at glaring. He supposed that ‘give the evil eye’ was not part of the _insufferably self-righteous Archangel_ job description, which meant he’d had no practice whatsoever in the longest time. 

Possibly ever since the battle that had preceded the collective nosedive of fallen angels from Heaven, but Crowley couldn’t be sure, because he hadn’t really taken part to it. He’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it turns out that ‘oh, hey guys, I was just leaving’ is not enough to get heavenly forces off your case. He’d been cast out before the actual battle even really started.

“This is temporary!” Gabriel snapped, and stood. His attempt at pretending his wobbly legs were not wobbly at all wasn’t very successful. “I don’t need to eat and-- and I have nothing to tell you.”

Crowley made a face. “Oh yes, I’m afraid you do.”

“What do you even care?” he snapped. Crowley stared at him a moment, then tilted his head on one side. 

“Oooh, I see. It seems we had a little bit of miscommunication, so let me clear this one up, yes?” Crowley leaned in, right in his face, yellow slit eyes staring at his own. He hissed more than he spoke, and never mind most of the words he uttered had no sibilants at all. He still pulled it off, somehow. “I don’t care that you got your wings ripped off. I don’t give a single blessing about you or what you’re going to be doing going forward, believe me. What I want to know is _why._ Because if something is going on, I’d really rather know before it happens to an angel I actually… Er. An angel I kind of give a toss--”

“A-hem.”

Aziraphale clearing his throat caused the demon to pause. He turned to glance at him, and so did Gabriel. He had both eyebrows raised. 

Crowley let out a sigh. “Really now?”

Aziraphale said nothing, but his eyebrows climbed further towards his hairline. 

A groan. “Oh, keep ruining my reputation, why don’t you,” the demon muttered, and turned back to glare at Gabriel. Behind him, Aziraphale looked rather smug. “... Sorry, where was I?”

Gabriel blinked, too confused to even ask and still desperately trying not to let the words - _got your wigs ripped off_ \- sink into his brain. If he thought of that for one moment, of what had happened, he’d scream. “If… something is going on?”

“Oh, right, right.” He cleared his throat, and the threatening hiss was back. “Because if something is going on, I’d really rather know before it happens to an angel I _care_ about.”

Gabriel’s eyes shifted from Crowley to Aziraphale, who refused to look away. Aziraphale had expected a reprimand, disapproval, _something_ \- but instead, all he got was an empty gaze. “Nothing will happen to you. God wants you safe. That much was made _painfully_ clear.”

… Wait. Wait a moment. Had the order come from God? And had it been because of what he’d tried to do… to him? “What-- the reason they did this to you-- you don’t mean…?”

“It is all wrong!” Gabriel snapped, and his voice was nowhere as firm and he probably would have liked. Under Aziraphale’s stunned eyes, he burrowed his face in his hands. “It’s all _wrong._ I followed the plan, enforced the rules. I did everything right. You broke all of them - you _traitor_ \- something had to be done! Someone had to!”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Am I hearing you say God got it wrong? That you know better than the Almighty?” he asked, causing Gabriel to wince and tear his hands off his face, outraged and terrified at the same time. Metatron’s words - God’s words, by extension - echoed in his ears.

_A crime born of pride._

“No! I would never!”

“Sounds an awful lot like you said it. Or you admit that God got it right, and you deserve this? You can't have it both ways, Gabe. Maybe you _did_ go against the Ineffable Plan, after all.”

Gabriel's features twisted in anguish. “How was I supposed to-- I didn’t know-- I couldn’t know!”

“No, you couldn’t. Sucks when the game is rigged against you, huh? No plan that you know of, everything is a choice, every choice you make could be the wrong one, and you won't know which it is until it knocks you down. Welcome to humanity, _ssssucker._ Can I offer-”

“Huh, hello? Is the store open? I’d like to have a look around, is anybody there?”

Three things happened in only a few moments. First, Aziraphale told himself that he should _really_ learn to shut that door properly. Second, Crowley thought that Aziraphale should _really_ learn to shut that door properly. And third, the moment they turned Gabriel stood and _ran_ \- through the shop, past a bewildered potential customer and through the door. He yelled something that sounded a lot like ‘thanks for the pornography!’ over his shoulder as he disappeared, which made Crowley suspect something was wrong with his hearing. 

Aziraphale _groaned._ “It’s best if we go stop him.”

“Why? I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“He doesn’t know how to human, he could get himself hurt.”

 _So what?,_ Crowley almost asked, didn’t. “Naaah, I'm sure he’ll be fi--”

There were screams coming from outside, screeching brakes and a loud crash, followed by more screams, and cries for an ambulance. Aziraphale’s gaze slowly shifted towards Crowley. 

“... Well, look at that,” Crowley said, tilting his head on one side. “Maybe he already found his way back.”

“Tell me you didn’t--”

“Nope, not me. He ran into the road. Did everything by himself,” he pointed out. Aziraphale sighed and they ran outside as well, leaving behind a very confused man muttering, in a small voice, that maybe he should return another day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The wings of the ostrich wave proudly, but are they the pinions and plumage of love?"  
> Job 39:13


	4. Daniel 7:4 - Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by Gatwick Airport's free wifi and also sheer spite. Mine, not the airport's.
> 
> I'll only be able to be online on my phone for a couple of days, until I sort out my Internet key because wifi is still a mirage where I'm going. So I might be slow to reply to comment - but I'll get to it as soon as I can, I promise!

“I-- I didn’t mean to! He came out of nowhere-- I couldn’t brake on time-- oh God I  _ never _ go that fast, I don’t know what came over me…!”

It sure had been a bad crash: as they ran up to the scene, Crowley could see that the car’s windshield was shattered and the bonnet crumpled by the force of the impact. A shame, that: it had been a nice car. As it was often the case with traffic accidents, there was a lot of confusion: the cries of the distraught driver, a small crowd of bystanders stopping to watch in horror, a few people trying to help and screaming for  _ someone _ to call an ambulance. 

The person closest to Gabriel was a woman kneeling over his mangled form - hands hovering over him but without touching anything, the way humans do when they desperately want to help but don’t know  _ how.  _ Aziraphale had always found it endearing: without realizing it, they were holding their hands exactly the way an angel healing the sick would. 

“A doctor!” she was screaming. “Is there a doctor here? Anyone?”

“We’re doctors,” Aziraphale spoke quickly, causing Crowley to roll his eyes behind the lenses of his glasses; it’s not a clever lie to tell when you have just stepped out of the shop you have owned for something like two hundred years. Luckily, angels and demons both had a knack for getting mortals to believe them if they just  _ willed _ it hard enough. 

“I’m not touching him,” Crowley muttered as the woman stepped back to make way for them, only to be entirely ignored. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale called out, turning Gabriel’s face towards him. He was alive and conscious, at least, eyes wide and fixed on him. He tried to speak, but he could only cough up frankly concerning amounts of blood. His legs were bent at an odd angle, too, and stark white bone poked out of his left arm; the shirt he had  _ just _ miracled on him was in tatters, asphalt embedded in his skin. “All right, all right - could be worse. I’ll heal you.”

“Why?” Crowley asked, and lifted his hands quickly at Aziraphale’s exasperated look. “No, I mean it! Have you considered that if he dies, he might just-- go straight back to Heaven? I would be a win/win. Wouldn’t he want that? Hey, Archangel Fucking Gabriel, nod if you want that. Or, uh, on second thought, do not. I think your neck is broken. How about you blink?”

Put like that, Aziraphale supposed it would make sense. He probably wouldn’t return as an angel the way he used to be, but he would at least be home… or would he? “We don’t  _ know _ that,” he muttered. “For all we know he might go straight to Hell, given that-- oh, don’t look at me like that!” Aziraphale protested, looking down to see Gabriel had somehow found it in himself to look  _ offended, _ even with his face and… just about everything else a literal bloody mess. “You  _ were  _ cast out, and-- and--” Ah, they really had no time to argue, not with so many people around to watch and an ambulance approaching. “Crowley, can you buy us time?”

A sigh. “If I must,” Crowley muttered, but raised a hand without further ado, and snapped his fingers. Everything and everyone around them - time itself - came to a standstill. “There. Now we can end him without witnesses.”

“Crowley.”

“Just kidding.”

“No, you were not.”

“Mostly kidding,” Crowley admitted. Truth be told, the only reason why he wasn’t being very serious was the sheer relief upon finding out, in the most unexpected way, that not only Aziraphale was not in danger: somehow, he was under the direct protection of  _ God.  _

Not bad, that. It looked like Gabriel, the insufferable first of the class, had already received due punishment for what he’d tried to do to his angel. So maybe he shouldn’t give him an easy way out, after all. He may as well stay and face the music, live like the humans he so dismissed. And, as a perk, Crowley would take every chance to make the experience just… a little bit worse.

Unaware of his thoughts, or perhaps able to guess them all too well, Aziraphale sighed and looked down at Gabriel. He was still, like everybody else, staring at nothing. It did make him easier to deal with, Aziraphale though, and proceeded to pass a hand over him for the second time in less than a couple of hours.

Ghastly as they looked, the injuries were made by mortal means, and closed much more readily than the deep holes on his back had. Within moments the bones were set, the neck straightened, the wounds closed. Gabriel’s eyes maintained that distant cast, of course, but he’d be fine as soon as time restarted. 

“Well, you’re welcome,” Crowley muttered sarcastically. 

“He can’t talk. His mind is frozen in ti--”

“What, you think he’d be thanking you if he could?” Crowley groaned, and stood. “All right, let’s drag him back in. Then we come back out, restart time, and convince everyone the car only ever hit a pole.”

“Sounds sensible,” Aziraphale agreed, miracling away the blood on the car’s shattered windshield and pooling on the ground with a wave of his hand. When Crowley began to drag Gabriel back - literally drag him like a potato sack, he just grabbed his arm and began walking towards the shop - he almost protested, then decided against him. 

Given the scope of the headache he was giving him, Aziraphale was fairly sure he deserved it. He didn’t think he was  _ supposed _ to have headaches, but then again angels are not  _ supposed _ to turn human as punishment for trying to destroy other angels, and yet there they were.

The world was even more full of possibilities than he’d previously thought.

* * *

“It’s not  _ possible.  _ You must be mistaken.”

“I am not, my Lord. It was definitely the Archangel Gabriel - I met him when I went upstairs with the Hellfire, for the angel they couldn’t burn. Oh, I knew something was off about him. This Aziraphale, I mean. When I saw him I wanted to try punching him, but he looked at me and--”

A furious buzzing noise caused the demon - someone so insignificant, Beelzebub didn’t know his name nor cared to - to abruptly fall silent, cowering. Beelzebub stood from their throne and took a step forward, towering over him. Figuratively, of course. It’s hard to really tower over anyone when the form you use the most is several inches shorter than most.

“Are you telling me,” Beelzebub spoke slowly, “that you went there to have a look at the angel they couldn’t burn, tempted a passing driver into speeding while you were at it, and that the car struck the Archangel Gabriel.”

“It did, sir. It was him. Didn’t recognize him until a moment before the impact, but I’m sure.”

“And he stayed down.  _ Bleeding.  _ Like a mortal.”

“Yes. It did seem really odd. Then the demon Crowley came--”

More furious buzzing at the mere mention of the name. The demon swallowed. “I mean-- the traitor came. Along with the  _ other  _ traitor. The one from upstairs.”

“And?” Beelzebub snapped. It got tiresome, really, how underlings kept pausing while reporting as though waiting for a reaction. Why do that, anyway? It wasn’t like the Prince of Hell was known to offer pats on the back and cookies - although at one point in time they  _ had  _ appreciated the  _ traitor’s  _ idea to get humans to bake cookies with raisins instead of chocolate chips, as well as the samples he had brought to the meeting.

“Well-- the traitors ran to him. I think they told the mortals they were doctors, and talked to him.” 

“Did you catch what they said?”

“No. I don’t think he answered - he was in pretty bad shape. For a moment I thought he was dead.” There was a laugh, echoing in the mostly empty room. Standing by the throne, Dagon stood silent. The underling shifted. “Er… it’s funny because that would be absurd, of course. Angels don’t die in car accidents.” 

“Nor they lie bleeding,” Beelzebub said quietly, frowning. “Yet he did.”

_ You can’t have him, _ Michael had snapped when Beelzebub had inquired about the fallen angel who had, apparently, not fallen all the way to Hell.  _ He's not a demon. He’s not one of yours.  _

_ “I demand a meeting with Gabriel, at least he can--”  _

_ “He is unavailable.” _

… Well. Now  _ that _ certainly painted an interesting picture. Could it be that the one to fall, and yet not to Fall, was an archangel? And  _ Gabriel,  _ out of all of them? Had he been punished with mortality for… for what? Strategic meetings aside, which were needed to maintain a certain…  _ order _ until their final war, Gabriel had always done everything painfully by the book. 

“Do go on,” Beelzebub spoke quietly.

“Well, I remember they knelt next to him, and then… nothing. I swear I blinked and they were gone, and everyone was acting like the car had hit a pole - they must have done something.”

“Time,” Dagon spoke. “The traitor can pause time. They must have taken him somewhere else."

"Or destroyed him," Beelzebub mused. They crossed their arms, their scowl deepening. "I doubt either has warm feelings for him."  _ Or for us,  _ they thought. 

"But one of them is an angel - surely he wouldn't… er." The demon - Beelzebub settled to call him Disposable 24601 - paused, having clearly realized how utterly  _ stupid _ the statement was. Angels had killed plenty of times, and there had been that business of drowning out a sizeable part of Earth's population which, as far as Beelzebub was concerned, amounted to Heaven taking over what should have been  _ Hell’s _ job. 

It was almost as annoying as the swarms of flies unleashed upon Egypt. That had been nothing short of a personal insult given that those were supposed to be  _ their _ trademark. Was God the Lord of the Flies? No. Was Moses? No. That was Beelzebub and Beelzebub only, and yet of all of the insects they could have picked, it just  _ had _ to be flies. 

It was one of many things they had meant to make God regret dearly once the Armageddon was underway, but now it looked like they’d have to wait indefinitely for a new chance. That  _ really _ pissed them off. 

"But they could have left him to die," Dagon was muttering, unaware of Beelzebub’s thoughts of vengeance. She was better at quiet observations than at rallying troops, really, and her observations were rarely wrong. She wasn't the Lord of the Files for nothing. 

"Or ended him there while time stood still," Beelzebub agreed. "No need to take him elsewhere."

A nod. “The situation is-- unusual. Even by the current standards of unusual. Shall we send--”

“I’ll look into it myself,” Beelzebub cut Dagon off, causing her to blink. For good reason, too - they rarely left Hell, leaving work on Earth to lesser demons - but this was no ordinary matter.

An  _ archangel _ had been cast out of Heaven, one of those most loyal to God’s plan, and they had every intention to find out why. Plus, as far as they were concerned, Gabriel belong in Hell now - just like every angel cast out of Heaven up to that point. Beelzebub wasn’t going to give him a pass, losing out on a new soldier for Hell, because Heaven had decided to pull a distinction between fallen and Fallen out of their halos. 

Michael could take the fine print and shove it; Hell had a claim on the being formerly known as the Archangel Gabriel, and Beelzebub had every intention to uphold it.

* * *

“I can’t stay here.”

“I agree with him there.”

“Can you  _ not  _ agree on-- listen. You need to at least  _ eat _ something.”

“I am not eating  _ that.  _ Never.”

“It’s sushi. It’s good, I told you. There’s the soy sauce, and--”

“And you drink it.”

“Crowley, please.”

“Oh, come on. Let me have some fun. Hey, Archangel Fucking Gabriel, see the green thing? It’s wasabi. Eat a spoonful.”

“Gabriel, you absolutely  _ do not _ do as he says.”

“I have no intention to consume  _ any _ of this. The smell alone makes me sick.”

“Mhh, maybe you should try having a toast…”

“Whatever that is, I refuse.”

“All right. You should at least drink some water, you must be dehydrated.”

“Give up, angel. It’s worse than trying to force Warlock to eat his vegetables.”

“You never tried to get Warlock to eat  _ any _ vegetables.”

“And it made meal times a whole lot easier.”

“He got scurvy!”

“And you healed him, so no harm done. He sent Nanny Ashtoreth a postcard, by the way. He and his mother are going to the States now that his father was moved. Said he’d have preferred to return to England.”

“Oh, I received one as well! He said he’d try to convince his mother to come back for a visit. He’d like to say hi to Brother Francis. A darling boy, considering his upbringing.”

“Yes, his father is a prick.”

“... We also raised him as we would the Antichrist.”

“Don’t all nannies do that?”

“You and I remember Mary Poppins very differently.”

The discussion went on, and Gabriel paid attention to precisely none of it. The word ‘Antichrist’ would have made him listen intently before, but not anymore. What did it matter? The Armageddon had not happened, the war had not happened, the plan he’d spent his existence following and preparing for was null and void. And even if it weren’t, he had no say in such matters anymore. No mortal did.

_ They should have let me die. Let me go home. _

The thought made something ache in his chest. He had never thought of Heaven that way -  _ home _ \- until now. And why would he? Heaven was simply  _ Heaven, _ his obvious and natural place; he’d never been anywhere else for this long, nor wished to be. You don’t quite think of any place as  _ home _ until you’re away from it and longing to return.

_ I want to go home. _

_ For all we know he might go straight to Hell. Oh, don’t look at me like that! You were cast out. _

No, not Hell, never, not him. It was impossible. Incomprehensible.

_ Ineffable? _

Gabriel had never needed to ask himself as many questions as he did now, nor had he ever felt so  _ lost.  _ It made his head hurt in ways even the earlier incident and the bickering going on in the background hadn’t. Was this what humans had to do day by day? Question everything and make choices without guidance, on the  _ hope _ they weren’t the wrong ones as they played a game whose rules were unknown? No wonder they had turned so self-destructive. Gabriel held back a groan - why oh why was his throat so parched - and tried to stop thinking. He could not. 

How could this be happening? Why was it happening to  _ him-- _ he had done everything right. He had followed the instructions, the orders. He’d done everything he had for the greater good, and yet there he was, exiled and doomed to walk on Earth for… how long? Was it temporary? Would he have to wait for the end of a mortal lifespan before he was allowed to go back?

… Would he be allowed back at all?

Too many questions and not a single answer. It would drive him mad; however insignificantly short human lives were, the idea of spending the next decades with that doubt in mind and no  _ answers _ made it feel like half an eternity. Was he supposed to  _ do  _ something to return home? Was he supposed to earn it, to atone for… whatever he had done wrong? But how? He had no plan, no instructions, no nothing. If only God could send him a sign,  _ any _ sign as to what he had to do--

_ My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? _

There was a low, keening noise; Gabriel didn’t even realize it had come from him. All he was aware of through the veil of despair was a sudden silence as he burrowed his face in his hands, the bickering gone. There was a touch on his arm. He didn’t flinch away. 

“There, there.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded just a  _ touch _ awkward. He slid something across the table - the glass. “Have this, at least. It’s only water.”

“I don’t want--” he croaked, his throat and mouth so dry it hurt, but Aziraphale cut him off by waving a hand. How many times had he done that, silenced him with a gesture because his blabbing was of no importance? He shut his eyes. “I can’t stay here.”

What he had meant to say was that he couldn’t stay on Earth; where that would leave him, since Heaven was closed to him and the thought of descending to Hell filled him with yet more dread, there was no telling. The universe was vast, but he lacked the power or means to travel it now. He was trapped.

Aziraphale, however, seeed to understand it differently. “Yes, it is a little awkward-- listen, there is a decent hotel nearby. The Underlook Hotel. You can stay there for now, all right? You’ll be safe. A room has  _ just _ been reserved and paid for.”

“A hotel-- that’s--?”

“A place where humans like to get naked. You walk in the hall and take off your clo--”

“You  _ definitely _ do not take off your clothes,” Aziraphale cut him off, giving him an annoyed look. “I’ll explain you everything you need to know, Gabriel. But you  _ need _ to drink.”

Gabriel stared at the glass; there was ice in it, and the sight made the thirst even worse. He almost spoke again to say he didn’t know  _ how  _ \- he knew it went in through the mouth, but then humans did  _ something _ with their throat to get it down and he wasn’t sure what it was - the thirst was so bad, he just reached for the glass and brought it to his lips, anything to make it end. 

The water was cool relief in his dry mouth, and the act of swallowing for the very first time came without any thought at all; the water went down the right way, he didn’t choke and oh, the relief was immediate and so great he couldn’t even muster the pride to pretend otherwise.

The demon, Crowley, looked more than slightly disappointed. “Well, you know how to drink,” he muttered. “By the way, do you know what to do when the water needs to come out again?”

Still reeling over how  _ good _ that drink of water had felt, Gabriel blinked at him in confusion. 

“... I’ll take it as a no. So, you’re  _ fully  _ human, no? With all that it entails?”

“What?”

“Got anything in your pants?”

“In my--?” Gabriel reached down, entirely missing the way Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and stilled. There was  _ something,  _ a bulge beneath the fabric that hadn’t been there before. He’d seen enough humans naked at the dawn of time to have a vague idea of what it would look like if he disrobed. Which he had no intention to do. “... This wasn’t here before.”

“Well, there you go. A pair of wings for a pair of testicles.”

Gabriel gaze him an unimpressed look. “It doesn’t seem a fair exchange.”

“It’s not,” he agreed, and turned to Aziraphale. “Well, angel, I  _ won’t  _ be the one to explain him biology. For when, you know, the water needs to come out.”

“The water needs to come out?” Gabriel repeated, now rather lost. “But I just consumed--”

“And he’ll have to  _ eat _ at some point.”

“What-- I’m not-- I have a book,” Aziraphale said suddenly, and stood. “I’ll go fetch it - you’ll find it useful,” he added quickly, and left before Gabriel - who would later read the children’s book about potty training Aziraphale was about to throw at him, and come to the conclusion that humans are positively disgusting - could say anything. 

He gave Crowley a wary look. “What are you talking about?”

The demon grinned widely. “Oh, I  _ could  _ tell you,” he said, letting the dark glasses slip down his nose to look at him with snake-like eyes. “But why spoil the fun when you can find out all by yourself?”

* * *

_ “Ah, to be a fly on the wall!” _

Beelzebub knew that was something mortals said often, whenever they wished to be able to see something they shouldn’t be able to. They were on to something: there was a  _ lot _ to be said in favor of being, literally, a fly on the wall. Or rather, right now, on the window. 

Not quite as good as being inside, but it offered them a good view of their target. He looked… bad.  _ Relatively  _ bad, because when you dwell in Hell your idea of looking bad is very, very different from that of most being in existence. And they liked bad, anyway; Beelzebub took no small measure of satisfaction in knowing that, should they show themselves to mortals with their  _ true _ visage, they would run screaming. 

However, for an angel’s standards - and for what had been Gabriel’s standard, especially - he did look bad. More dishevelled than Beelzebub had ever seen him and  _ tired;  _ dark shadows under his eyes, skin gray-ish, his hands shaking as he drank some water. 

There he was, one of the Almighty’s lap dogs until he’d been kicked out by his master to become Hell’s newest recruit. Maybe he wouldn’t make too much of a fuss; he was ill-suited for life as a mortal, and there  _ were _ perks to joining the forces of Hell. Either way, Beelzebub had said they were going to claim him and they would. Their honor was at stake, at that point, however questionable said honor was.

Hell’s concept of  _ honor _ was a tiny bit skewed, too.

As they kept watching, both traitors stood and so did Gabriel, more slowly, slipping something that looked like a small book in his pocket. Honestly, Beelzebub have burst in to claim him already if not for the  _ traitors _ sitting right there. 

_ So, you're probably thinking, "If he can do this, I wonder what else he can do?" And very, very soon, you're all going to get the chance to find out. _

It wasn’t that Beelzebub was in any way  _ scared _ of them, of course, it would be laughable, but...

_ I think it would be better for everyone if I were to be left alone in the future. Don't you? _

… Well. Best to avoid unnecessary confrontations. Gabriel would be alone, at some point. And when that happened, the Lord of the Flies would be ready to act.

* * *

The Underlook Hotel, where they dropped him off after an  _ unnecessarily _ fast car ride that would have made Gabriel throw up if his stomach hadn’t been emptier than a pint glass after Nigel Farage’s passage, was a small but clean establishment, with large windows that let in what sunlight was to be found in London, which wasn’t much that day. The entrance hall had a long front desk and a smiling receptionist sitting behind it, and Gabriel headed towards it - more on a guess because he actually knew what the process was supposed to be at that point.

“Good afternoon,” the woman at the reception said, voice entirely too cheery. Truth be told she would have been very happy to personally set fire to about half the guests and a quarter of the staff, as do many people who work in the hospitality sector once their will to live has taken enough blows. This usually happens within the first two months and a half, a scant couple of weeks more than it takes to destroy the soul of a retail worker. Still, like most people working in the hospitality sector, she could hide it with a smile. “Can I help you?”

Gabriel nodded. “I have a reservation,” he said, and glanced down at the card. “Room 217.”

“Let’s see...” The woman typed, stared at the screen, then nodded. “Gabriel F. Archer?”

_ No. I’m the Archangel Gabriel. The Messenger. That’s all I ever was and will ever be, it can’t be gone forever, it just cannot. And what does that F stand for, anyway? _

But of course, that was not a viable answer. With a knot in his insides and a weight in his chest, he nodded. “That’s me,” he said, and managed to smile. It would have probably looked more real if he’s pulled up the corners of his mouth with his fingers, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Lovely. Now let me-- oh, I see you completed your check-in this morning.” That was good, he supposed, because he knew nothing of what a ‘check in’ would entail. “Need help with your luggage?”

“I don’t have any--” Gabriel began, then paused, and glanced down. By his feet there was a single, black suitcase. He stared down at it for a few moments, and worked his jaw before speaking again. “... I think I can manage,” he said, and picked it up. It felt heavy, but of course it was not. He was just laughably, ridiculously  _ weak.  _ His very name - _ God is my strength  _ \- felt like a mockery now.

“Good. The lift is that way - your room is on the second floor. Do you need anything else?”

Gabriel hesitated. He didn’t want to ask, he really did not; it would feel like admitting defeat, that he truly was a mere mortal in need of gross matter for nourishment. But his stomach was almost cramping up, and he felt faint, and he gave in. After all, he couldn’t really keep pretending after finding himself, bleeding, on the hard ground. “Would you happen to know where I may be able to acquire some edible matter?”

That gained him a startled look. “Some... what?” she asked. In the back of her mind the Weirdo Alert light - it comes free after the first month working in the hospitality sector, along with several neuroses - began flashing yellow.

Right, they had a name for it. What was it, again? “You know… food?”

“Oh! Of course. It’s a bit late for lunch, but dinner is served from six - would you like to reserve a table? I’ll do it for you. You’ll find some snacks and drinks in the mini fridge in your room.”

“... I see. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome! Here for business, or are you on vacation?”

“Exile,” Gabriel muttered, turning her Weirdo Alert light red, and walked towards the lift without another word, dragging the suitcase and focusing on nothing but putting one foot in front of the other. Once alone in the room, he’d-- he didn’t know. He’d tried to ask, after Aziraphale gave him a mobile phone and his number, desperate for  _ any  _ indication of what he should  _ do. _

_ “What am I supposed to do now?” _

_ “You figure it out, Gabe,”  _ the demon Crowley had muttered, still sitting behind the wheel, sneering. _ “It’s the gift of free will.” _

It didn’t feel like a gift at all; it was terrifying, and he’d thought at least Aziraphale would understand, but he… didn’t. 

_ “It doesn’t have to be a bad thing. You do whatever you want from here on.” _

_ Wanting _ was a foreign concept to Gabriel. He’d never  _ wanted _ anything, only ever done what he had to do for… for the greater good. The only thing he  _ wanted _ now was to shut his eyes and open then again to find he’d been living some sort of nightmare, to be vanquished by daylight. He only wanted things to go back the way they were.

He only wanted to go  _ home. _

By the time the lift stopped on the second floor, something peculiar had happened - his vision was blurry. Gabriel blinked it away, and found his cheeks wet. Oh, wonderful, now that mortal body was  _ leaking  _ the water he’d been forced to consume. Was that what the demon had meant when he talked about the water coming out? He’d probably have to read the book he’d been handed, although the illustration on the cover looked absolutely puerile and unlikely to hold any meaningful information about his condition. It would give him something to do, if nothing else. 

Or maybe that could wait. Maybe he’d pray, first thing - throw himself on his knees as soon as he found himself finally alone and pray like he never had before. Maybe God would listen. Maybe he’d receive a sign, guidance, anything that would tell him what to _ do.  _ Yes, he’d do that; it wasn’t much, but it was still the closest thing he had to a plan. 

As he walked down the corridor and to the door of his room, he didn’t notice the fly that buzzed after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The first beast was like a lion with eagles’ wings. As I watched, its wings were pulled off, and it was left standing with its two hind feet on the ground, like a human being. And it was given a human mind.”  
> Daniel 7:4


	5. 2 Kings 1:6 - Baal-zebub

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My keyboard sort of died halfway through the chapter, so I've been typing directly on the screen of my tablet. Haaaaate.  
> If you notice any misspellings in this chapter, now you know why.

In the end, finding Gabriel had been a simple matter of looking for reports of sudden, unusual lighting. And as far as such phenomena go, ball lighting is among the rarest of them all; for it to be reported right above Soho Square the previous night, along with a curious hole in the ground… well, it was quite the red flag. A red flag that let out the most distinctive fishy smell. 

And if there was something Sandalphon was good at following, it was fishy smells. In this one specific case, he didn’t think he’d have to follow it very far. He knew exactly _who_ he’d find only a couple of streets away, close enough even for a weakened Gabriel to stagger to.

“... You think he might have turned to Aziraphale?” Michael had asked, seemingly unconvinced. Uriel, on the other hand, had been quicker to agree with his theory.

“Assuming that is the spot where he fell, Aziraphale is the closest angel he could hope to find.”

“If he is indeed still an angel, given that Hellfire did not harm him.”

“He has God’s protection,” Uriel had muttered, her voice bitter. “We have to assume he is.”

“And Gabriel was hurt. We were not allowed to heal him before he was sent down. He might have thought he could do that,” Sandalphon had added, despite not really knowing whether or not Gabriel had been able to _think_ at all. When they let him go after taking his wings from him, to be cast out, he was barely coherent - barely conscious, falling limply from their grip. 

“And why would he think Aziraphale of all angels would help him?” Michael had asked, only to gain herself a long look from Uriel. 

“Who else _could_ he turn to? He has nothing and no one on Earth.”

He still has us up here, Sandalphon had thought, but it had remained unspoken. “He used to be friendly enough with this human tailor,” he’d said. “He made him good clothes. Gabriel always had a taste for human clothing.”

“... And when was that?”

“Well, that was in the middle of the Regency, so-- ah. Right. Humans and their life spans.”

In the end, he’d volunteered to go check himself; despite having no desire to see Aziraphale up close ever again, just in case he shot Hellfire towards him again somehow, he was the one with the best knowledge of London. 

And it hadn’t taken long for him to know his intuition had been correct: he’d been just across the street - it looked like someone had smashed their car into a pole - when the door had opened. And out they had walked, all three of them: the demon, Aziraphale... and Gabriel, somehow unsteady on his feet but unharmed.

He’d almost lost them several times in the few minutes that followed, because the driving of whoever was behind the wheel positively insane. The cab driver he’d flagged down - and who’d reacted to his request to follow that car with a frankly puzzling “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this all my life!” - could barely manage to follow, and would have probably been left in the dust if they hadn’t stopped only a few streets away. 

Gabriel had looked… just a little green in the face when he’d left the car, and had paused to speak to Aziraphale, who from his part didn't seem in the slightest bit antagonizing. It was a relief, really, considering that Gabriel would be powerless to defend himself should he decide to take revenge. Or the demon, certainly the demon would want to harm him; if he hadn't, Sandalphon could only assume Aziraphale had him on a tight leash. Even from across the street - entirely unaware of the fly sitting on the roof of the Bentley - he could smell sulphur and _evil._

In the end, both Aziraphale and the demon had left, and Gabriel had gone inside the hotel. Sandalphon had decided to wait a short while before going in as well, in case those two came back for whatever reason. So he walked in a bar across the street - if he’d known humans only marginally better, he would have also known that ‘an angel walks in a bar’ would be an excellent start for a joke - and ordered a mug of the bitter beverage humans enjoy. 

“... Coffee?” a waiter asked, only slightly perplexed; soon enough, waitressing would destroy what was left of his will to live and he would no longer feel surprised at anything anymore. 

“Yes, that,” Sandalphon agreed - he would know, he reasoned, it was his job - and sat there, sipping the bitter liquid that was brought to him, before he pulled out the phone Michael had given him. A special sort of phone, with a reception and data plan that was, quite simply, not of that world. 

Michael answered in the middle of the very first ring. “Well…?”

“I found him.”

A long sigh of relief. “How is he?”

“Haven’t spoken to him yet, but he seems… reasonably well, all things considered. He did turn to Aziraphale. The demon was there, too.”

“And they didn’t harm him?”

“Not that I could see. They left him in a hotel. I’ll go in as soon as I have finished this…” Sandalphon paused. “Hey, uh… servant?” He wasn’t entirely certain what they were called nowadays, but that was the gist of it, he supposed. “What is this beverage again?”

As another small part of his soul withered and died, the waiter - a young student who was wondering if a history degree was truly worth nine thousand pounds a year, considering that those who study history are doomed to watch those who don’t repeat it anyway - forced himself to smile. “Coffee, sir.”

“Coffee. Not bad, perks you up. Maybe Gabriel would like some.”

“... Do ask him. But first and foremost, make sure he knows that we’re here to help him.”

“Of course,” Sandalphon said, and ended the call with the absolute, idiotic certainty that Gabriel would be overjoyed to see him. 

* * *

_"Ugh.”_

The book sailed through the air in an elegant arc to land somewhere in the vicinity of the wastebasket. Sitting on the bed, face contorted in disgust, Gabriel faintly wished he could will it to catch fire. What he’d just read about human bodily functions was… ugh. _Ugh._

‘Disgust’ wasn’t something he had often felt towards humanity - usually there was a vague interest at times and polite disinterest most others - but now it certainly was his strongest feeling. His current condition suddenly seemed even more of a punishment; all the showers he could possibly take wouldn’t help make it better. He was never going to feel clean again.

_Never going to feel whole again, either._

On his back, over his shoulder blades, the ragged scars where his wings had been ached. Not the physical sort of ache he’d had a quite literal crash course in over the past twenty-four hours, but something deeper, throbbing worse than any infection - worse than the hunger he was desperately trying to ignore, the contents of the small fridge in his room untouched on the desk. Gabriel’s voice rang through the empty room as a raspy whisper. “I’m sorry.” 

Could God hear him? Or rather, _would_ God lend an ear to what he had to say - a disgraced angel cast out of Heaven, away from Their glory? He didn’t know. All he had was hope and he would cling to that. After all, however much he felt like it, he was not in Hell. So maybe… maybe there _was_ hope for him yet. Gabriel looked up, and sank on his knees beside the bed.

“I meant well. I thought I was upholding the greater good. I never meant to take Your judgment upon myself. If I did-- I’m sorry. Forgive me. _Please,_ let me come home. I won’t fail you again.”

There was the faintest echo of his own voice, and then… silence. Outside someone in the road shouted an insult that might have been meant for someone’s mother or their cat, it was hard to tell. A door somewhere in the hallway was opened and shut again. Nothing else happened.

_Of course not. I need a Circle to speak with God, or at least to his Voice._

Only that of course, he had no idea how to make one, because he never needed to try contacting God - or rather, Metatron; no one had spoken directly to God in eons - all the way from Earth. Even if he could, would God take his call at all?

_Why would They? Who do you think you are, that God would give you audience?_

_The Archangel Gabriel._

_Not anymore._

_I thought I was someone important._

_You never were._

_I thought…_

_Prideful fool._

Gabriel’s missing wings ached, his stomach cramped, and he went from kneeling to curling up on the floor, eyes shut. A memory tried to resurface, that of being held on the ground by two pairs of hands, of a weigh on him as his wings were torn away, and he shut his eyes tighter.

“At least tell me why,” he choked out. “Why me? Why _only_ me?”

Silence. Something bubbled into the pit of despair in him, something hot and bitter that was not, as Sandalphon would have gleefully suggested, coffee. It was burning anger, against his predicament and, even more dangerously, against God.

_Am I hearing you say God got it wrong? That you know better than the Almighty?_

_A crime born of pride._

_Or you admit that God got it right, and you deserve this? You can't have it both ways, Gabe._

“They assisted me! Worked with me, made decisions with me-- we were equals in everything!” 

And they truly had been, him and Michael especially, utterly loyal since even before the first war. God’s warrior, and God’s messenger. How could it be that, for the same crime, one was condemned and the other carried out the sentence? How could it be fair, how could it be just?

_I am Gabriel, that stand in the presence of God._

_Not anymore. I am no one, and I am alone._

“I always did my best - I… I deserve an explanation!” Gabriel choked out, beyond caring how blasphemous the notion was, that God _owed_ him anything. “A word! A sign! Anything!”

“Ah, give up. Either God has the worst reception, or they really don’t care to speak to any of us,” a voice rang out suddenly, and it caused Gabriel freeze - both because it was unexpected, and because it was a voice he _knew;_ one that couldn’t possibly be further away from God’s.

Sitting on the bed like it was a throne, towering over his huddled form on the floor and surrounded by a cloud of sulphur, was the Prince of Hell.

* * *

Beelzebub quite enjoyed towering over others. They enjoyed lording over others as well, being a Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, which generally came easier. ‘Towering’ is honestly the hard part, when your usual form is fairly diminutive in size. Therefore, they quite appreciated Gabriel’s choice to lower himself on the floor; it was a promising start for their new work relationship. 

Of course it wasn’t _them_ he had lowered himself for, but it mattered not. He would, in time. Sooner or later. Possibly sooner.

Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, was not known for their patience.

“What-- you? What are you doing here?”

That was… no appropriate way to greet one’s new superior either; Beelzebub supposed they _could_ excuse it, if anything because Gabriel had a lot to process at the moment and, last they had met, they had worked on opposite sides essentially as equals. It was a big change, something angels did not do well with.

Yes, they _could_ excuse him. They just chose not too. As Gabriel scrambled to sit up, Beelzebub gave him an unimpressed look.

“That is no way to greet your superior. I believe ‘your Lordship’ or ‘sir’ would serve better.”

That gained them a rather stupid look as Gabriel sat up, still on the ground. “But… you’re not.”

All right, so maybe he either wasn’t as clever as he made himself seem, or was still quite deep in denial. Beelzebub rolled their eyes and stood, coming to tower - ah how they loved that word - directly above Gabriel. “You are Fallen,” they said, in the slow voice you’d use for a very slow child. Or at least, so Beelzebub assumed. It wasn’t often they spoke with very slow children or any children at all, with the exception of the not-Antichrist. Although dealing with especially slow demons probably came close enough. “Therefore, you now belong in Hell. I am here to claim you. You will work under my supervision and--”

“What-- no!” Gabriel protested, and moved to stand; a look from Beelzebub was enough for him to reconsider, but he did glare up at them. "That voice in my head, telling me all the worst-- it was you!"

"Uh, no. You're just going crazy."

“Ah." Gabriel had the good grace to look embarrassed before speaking again. "I-- I am not Fallen.”

“No? You seem to have landed quite heavily.”

If the remark stung, Gabriel did not let it show. “On Earth, not in Hell,” he argued. “You have no claim on me!”

Beelzebub snorted. “You still _fell,_ and I expect you to tell me the reason why. Am I supposed to care for the fine print?”

“You-- always cared about the fine print!” Gabriel protested, and truth be told, it _was_ one thing they had in common… with one important distinction. 

“I care about the fine print when it benefits me.”

The notion seemed to downright _offend_ him. “You can’t do that! And… and if I were meant for Hell, I would not have landed on Earth! It must mean _something._ "

Ah, look at him, clinging to details because it was all he could hold onto in his desperate certainty he was still _special,_ one of God’s golden archangels. With another roll of their eyes, Beelzebub held out a hand. To a casual observer, it might have looked like a nice gesture to help him up; Gabriel, knowing better, stared at that hand like one would stare at a claw about to tear the soul out of their body. 

“You bore me. Now, come. No reason to make it more difficult for yourself. We prepared a nice spot for you in Hell.” As nice as a spot in Hell got, anyway. Which wasn’t very nice, or else it wouldn’t be Hell, but Gabriel could probably guess.

Somehow, the former Archangel Gabriel - who at the moment looked like garbage, however much Beelzebub tended to appreciate garbage - found the audacity to _sneer._ “You cannot claim me and you _know_ it. Mortals are beyond your grasp unless they offer up their soul, or get to the end of their life doomed to Hell.”

Taking a mental note to leave leave him to Dagon for a bit once they got back - they didn’t call her Master of Torments for nothing - Beelzebub sneered right back.

“That is not a long wait,” they pointed out. The reminder of how pathetically _short_ human lives were knocked that smirk off his face, at least. “And I could make it even shorter with a snap of my fingers.”

“I--” fear twisted Gabriel’s features for a moment, then he forced himself to scowl. A valiant attempt, Beelzebub had to concede. “But you won’t.”

“Oh?”

“There is no telling whether my soul would be claimed by Heaven or Hell if you destroy this vessel now,” Gabriel retorted and, for Satan’s sake, of course he was right. Trying to claim his soul now against his will could very well backfire, giving him a ticket straight back to Heaven and leaving them empty-handed. Still…

“... You’re not certain yourself, are you?” Beelzebub tilted their head on one side. “Or else you would have already ended it.”

“I…” Gabriel scowled, cheeks reddening like the Prince of Hell had just unveiled a shameful secret, a shameful weakness. “E-either way, you won’t take the risk.”

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes. “So, you won’t make this easy. Very well.” They sneered, leaning forward and causing that _infuriating,_ pompous idiot to shrink, trying to scoot back on his hands and backside across the floor, away from them and towards the door. “I’ll claim your soul the old-fashioned way. I’ll be your shadow from now on. I’ll whisper temptations in your ear every day of your sad, little, short human lifespan - until it runs out and you’ll be ours.”

Truth be told, as a high-ranking demon mostly based in Hell, Beelzebub was severely out of practice when it came to tempting humans to their side… but that was a detail Gabriel needed not know. And besides, how hard could it be? They would brush up their skills in no time, the Lord of the Flies was sure of it.

“Y-you-- I--” Gabriel, who had paled a little more with each word Beelzebub uttered, had to swallow before his spoke. When he did, his voice was probably shakier than he would have liked. “It won’t work. I won’t let you tempt me. If this is God’s test for me--”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. God doesn’t care about you all that much, and besides I am not their delivery boy. I am here for Hell’s sake. And once I do claim you, you will regret making me wait.”

Gabriel swallowed, then - showing a good deal of idiocy - scowled again. He looked about as threatening as a panda, but at least there was an attempt. “Your plan will not work. I won’t allow you to tempt me. You can’t have me.”

“Yes, yes. Many have said the same. And they have failed.”

“I will not!” Gabriel snapped, and began to stand up. “I am the Archangel Gabriel, and there is no force of Hell or Earth that will ever get me on your side. Begone, foul bea--”

“Hello? Gabriel? Anybody in?”

After the voice rang out, something interesting happened: Gabriel _shrieked,_ and ended all attempts at getting up as though every muscle in his body had turned to cooked asparagus. He fell back on his backside to stare at the door, which was now open, with wide eyes. 

Beelzebub followed his gaze to see a familiar enough face; Sandalphon may look unassuming in that form, but they knew he could be a force to be reckoned with. The few times they had met, Sandalphon had been firmly by Gabriel's side… but right now, the former archangel looked far from pleased to see him. He looked _terrified,_ actually, in a way Beelzebub had failed to make him, which was rather annoying and more than slightly insulting.

_What happened upstairs, anyway? Why was he cast out?_

"Gabriel! Oh, here you are - we were worried. It's, er, good to see you?"

Beelzebub blinked, gaze shifting between Gabriel - who was scrambling again to get up, but mostly scooting away on the floor - and Sandalphon, who seemed to be doing his best to come across as harmless, hands raised and a nervous smile on his face. Of course, all pretense of harmlesses was gone the second his eyes fell on Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, Lord of the Flies and so forth. 

“What-- you! What are _you_ doing here!”

Ah, the arrogance of angels - acting like the Prince of Hell owed him an explanation for being on Earth, as though they had just showed up uninvited in Heaven itself after getting on the wrong elevator. Which had only happened once or twice in millennia, really; Beelzebub considered it a pretty good going.

“Did you buy the hotel? Got carried away with your game of Monopoly?” they asked drily. The invention of Monopoly - or rather, the twisting of its intended purpose and the violence it prompted at the tables of the most respectable households - was one of Hell’s proudest achievements. Not quite up there with the absolute, brilliant chaos a game of Uno could wreak, or the utter ruin of compulsive gambling, but close enough.

Sandalphon bared his teeth in a gesture that made him look _fairly_ threatening, Beelzebub had to concede, although Dagon certainly pulled it off better. “If you so much lift a hand on him--” he began, only to trail off when Gabriel managed to find his knees and scrambled to hide… behind Beelzebub.

Well. Now _that_ only added to their confusion, and the hands grasping at the lapel of their jacket added to their annoyance. Beelzebub turned to look down at Gabriel, who stared up at them - still on his knees, a nice change - with wide, terrified eyes. Which was… also a change, but not necessarily a nice one. Beelzebub would have enjoyed it a lot more if they had the slightest inkling as to what the Heaven was going on.

“I’m sorry,” they said, tilting their head on one side. “Do you want to lose those hands?”

“Beelzebub! Don’t you _dare_ touch him!” Sandalphon barked. 

Oh, for Satan’s _sake,_ had those two decided to share one single brain cell that day? 

“He is the one touching me!” Beelzebub snapped, and glared down. That gaze had made demons burst crying and, upon occasion, burst in flames. “What did I do or say that made you think you’re _allowed_ to touch me?”

No flames, and no tears. While Gabriel looked paler, and the grip on the lapels of their jacket only tightened. “Don’t let him get me.” 

Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, opened their mouth. Then, failing to think of anything at all he could retort to _that,_ they closed it. Opened it again. Closed it again. 

_What. In. The. World. Is. Going. On._

Still near the door, Sandalphon sputtered. “Gabriel what-- I’m not going to-- that was God’s order, I couldn’t-- didn’t want to--”

Well well well. The more they talked, the more interesting the picture became. Confused, but still interesting. Something had happened, and the more Beelzebub knew, the more they could use to make their case and convince Gabriel to take his rightful place in Hell. “What did you do to him?”

“I-- it wasn’t me, Michael--” Sandaphon began, then trailed off when his brain caught up with his tongue. His lost expression turned into anger again. “I have nothing to explain to you, demon.”

Beelzebub sneered. “It is Prince of Hell to you,” they said. “So-- Michael. What did Michael do to him? What did _God_ order you to do?”

“I owe no explanation--”

Beelzebub looked away from him, down at the… _former_ archangel still holding on the lapels of their jacket. He was looking at Sandalphon, too, hiding behind them like a scared mortal child, but looked up when Beelzebub spoke. “What did they do to you?”

Gabriel swallowed, and his voice was barely audible when he spoke. “My wings.”

_Gone, of course. Mortals have no wings. They took them._

Now that was… callous. Heaven wasn’t tender with those it deemed unworthy of being there anymore, but even them - even _Satan_ \- got to keep their wings. As a whole, making him mortal was callous; more powerless than any demon. And of course, _of course_ God would get other angels, his _friends_ , to do the dirty work for them; they rarely struck anyone personally nowadays. 

There was a degree of sadism in that way of handling things that, Beelzebub suspected, even Satan himself could not hope to match. Not that they would go saying as much aloud; Satan would most certainly take offense.

“Did you at least try to argue? Or did you just turn on him like vultures on a carcass?”

“Argue with God?” Sandalphon looked horrified at the mere thought. “Of course not, we-- you-- ah, you’d do that, wouldn’t you? You _did,_ and look where it got you!”

“And so you threw him down rather than leap yourselves,” Beelzebub muttered, and scoffed. “Of course you would. No surprise there.” 

Not that Hell would precisely flock at the defense of a demon condemned by Satan himself, but that was entirely beside the point. The point there was making Heaven look bad - and it wasn't like they got many chances to do that. The guys upstairs had infuriatingly good PR and fan clubs across the world, some of which would put most demons to shame. An amazing percentage of them did, in fact, turn up in Hell once their life was done. They were rarely happy about their placement, but who ever was?

The angel’s features twisted in fury. “We had no _choice,_ and you know it!”

A scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you did. You could have chosen to refuse and take the fall with him.”

“I...” Sandalphon hesitated, and looked down at Gabriel, once again looking very lost. Beelzebub felt the grip on the lapels of their jacket tightening, heard a sharp intake of breath. “Gabriel, we--”

“You dropped him the moment God told you to,” Beelzebub sneered. “God forsook him and so did you.”

“We didn’t want--”

“But you did. And now you think you can come uninvited and force your presence on him?”

“He’s not _yours,_ Beelzebub!”

“Neither he’s yours. And you don’t want him back.”

“You know nothing! We do want--”

“Oh? And what are you going to do? Argue with God to allow him back? Please. You won’t do it and you know it.”

No answer; Sandalphon had enough sense, at least, not to deny that. He stilled, face pale, and looked back down at Gabriel - silent, helpless. Beelzebub held back a sneer, and glanced down as well. 

“Want me to get him to leave?”

For a few moments, there was no reply; Gabriel stayed on his knees, gaze low, saying nothing. Then, slowly, he let go of Beelzebub’s jacket, reached up to wipe his face - ah, yes, humans leaked that way - and stood. Sowly, still behind them, but he stood and drew in a long breath. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, but with a degree of coldness to it that hadn’t been there before. 

“... If you please,” he said.

Sandalphon’s eyes turned wide as saucers. "What? No, Gabriel, you can't-- listen to me--"

"I begged you to stop."

"Gabriel--"

"You didn't listen."

"It was _God's will,_ you know we couldn't-"

All right, that was enough. A gesture of Beelzebub's hand, and a swarm of flies materialized right outside the open window. They barged in, buzzing furiously, and surrounded Sandalphon, who could only cry out and stumble back through the door. Another gesture, and the door slammed shut - a curtain of Hellfire covering it, to keep any angel from coming in again. 

"That ought to keep them out for a good while," they muttered. There was no answer; behind them there was only a long sigh, the creak of a mattress' springs.

They turned to see Gabriel sitting back on the bed, burrowing his face into shaky hands. He drew in a deep breath before uttering something that was… rare for the Prince of Hell to hear.

"... Thank you."

Well, look at that. Maybe, entirely by accident, they _were_ on to something. The long-held belief that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar was quite frankly a load of crap - especially in the case of fruit flies who are attracted by vinegar like nothing else - but perhaps, when it came to catching a former archangel, a different approach may be needed.

And Beelzebub might have just found the right angle.

"... All right," they said calmly, and sat down at well, chin resting on their fist. "Tell me what happened."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And they said to him, a man came up to us and told us to go back to the king and give him this message. ‘This is what the Lord says: Is there no God in Israel? Why are you sending men to Baal-zebub, the god of Ekron, to ask whether you will recover? Therefore, because you have done this, you will never leave the bed you are lying on; you will surely die.’"  
> 2 Kings 1:6


	6. Ecclesiastes 10:1 - Foolish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t you hate it when you’re trying to have a lunch date and archangels keep crashing it.

“Run this by me again. Some angel wrecks the Great Plan, you do your duty to ensure he is adequately punished, and somehow you’re the _only_ one who gets screwed over it?”

“... In extremely crude terms, yes.”

“And your closest cooperators carried it out.”

Gabriel folded his arms, giving Beelzebub what he hoped was a sufficiently icy look to hide the fact the memory still make him feel… ill, he supposed, was that what feeling ill was like? It was awful. Being human was awful. He couldn’t wait for it to be over. “They did,” he said, his voice clipped and cold, hoping they’d let the matter drop.

Beelzebub raised both eyebrows, seemingly unimpressed with Gabriel’s attempt at expressing cold disdain. “Did they pull them out, or did they cut?”

“What?”

“Or both?” the Prince of Hell leaned forward, all inquisitiveness and morbid curiosity. Had Gabriel bothered to be around Earth much during the Inquisition, he would have recognized it as the look on a torturer’s face while surveying another torturer’s handiwork, trying to figure out who did it better. “Just curious. Did it leave a mark?”

“That’s-- in no way relevant!” Gabriel protested, and this time his voice _did_ shake. He hated that, and he shut his mouth so abruptly his teeth clicked together.

“Show me.”

 _“No!”_ Gabriel snapped, rearing back, acutely aware of the fact Beelzebub could force the clothes off his back to look if they wished, and he would be powerless to stop it. Actually, while the fact he _might_ end up in Heaven again if his vessel was destroyed kept them from killing him, there was plenty that the Lord of the Flies could do to him. Plenty of horrible things, all manners of torments they could unleash and oh God, _why_ had he acted without thinking, why had he thrown himself at the mercy of a being who had _none,_ and who would _not_ tolerate defiance?

_Not much of a change from Heaven, it seems._

The thought was absurd as it was horrifying, and Gabriel could scarcely believe it had come from his own mind. Before him, Beelzebub’s eyes darkened, their features twisted… and then nothing happened. They stared a moment, clearly angered, then they let out a long breath and their features smoothed again in a blankness that was… almost as terrifying. 

“You may want to learn better,” they droned. “No answer but _yes zzzir_ will be accepted once you take your place in Hell.”

A wise man would have known that was the right moment to keep quiet; just nod, and let the matter drop. But Gabriel - formerly an archangel, a man for less than twenty-four hours - was in no way, shape or form wise. “I am never joining you in Hell,” he protested. 

“That remains to be seen,” Beelzebub said, sounding almost bored, and paused to rub their chin, looking intently at him. “Either way, what happened to you confirms my theory,” they finally declared, causing Gabriel to look back at them, blinking. Had they… truly worked out something about the Ineffable Plan? About the reason why he’d been cast out?

“What theory?” he asked, leaning forward. Beelzebub met his gaze, deadpan.

“God is an absolute lunatic.”

“Wha-- God is not-- don’t _say_ that!” Gabriel protested, rearing back as though smacked, and looked around like he feared God themselves would show up in that room to smite them both. Of course, no such thing happened. God had never truly showed Their face to anyone in eons; Gabriel and the others only ever speak to God through Metatron… and last Metatron had spoken to them, it was to spell out his sentence for trying to destroy an angel without God’s permission.

_A crime born of pride._

Beelzebub snorted. “What, are you outraged on behalf of the one who cast you out? Or are you scared?”

“Both!” Gabriel snapped. “Don’t you ever-- call God a-- and look who’s talking!”

A shrug. “Unlike a certain someone up above, I make no mystery of being a lunatic.”

“Ah,” Gabriel paused, thinking it over. Of all things the Prince of Hell could be accused of, he supposed _false advertising_ could be crossed out. “... Fair,” he conceded. 

At the door, the barrier of Hellfire still crackled, but Gabriel could no longer hear Sandalphon calling out. Worry gnawed at the back of his mind - what if he’d been hurt? What if he’d been destroyed? - but Beelzebub had said that Hellfire wouldn’t harm him unless he was stupid enough to stick his hand in it to open the door. Sandaphon was _probably_ not _that_ stupid, Gabriel thought rather patronizingly, which was sort of rich coming for someone who had temporarily forgotten about his own mortality to run in front of a speeding car only hours earlier. 

Either way, he had little choice but to take Beelzebub’s word. And little _time,_ too, because sooner or later some human would notice the flames engulfing the door and try to do something about it. Amusing as it might be to imagine a human trying to extinguish Hellfire with one of those funny red cylinders they liked to use, Gabriel suspected it would cause a stir.

"So, you admit I'm right. I see you're starting to learn."

"Wha-- no! God is absolutely _not_ a lunatic! You are, if you think-- I won't ever join your side. I may not know what the Ineffable Plan has in store for me--”

“Oh, still clinging to the belief you have a somewhat relevant role in it? Or any role at all?” Beeluzebub sneered. Gabriel clenched his fists so tightly his nails sank in his palms. 

“Everyone is part of the Plan,” he spat, regretting evenr telling them as much as he had. Why had he actually done that, answered their demand to know what had happened? The Prince of Hell had no right to give him orders, even when they sounded more like _requests._ He was about to add something scathing, or at least he would have once he did come up with something scathing to say, but he had no time to try.

Suddenly, something _rumbled._ Beelzebub blinked. Gabriel groaned and doubled over, empty stomach clenching painfully.

“What was that?”

“N- nothing,” Gabriel gritted out, just as his stomach decided to give its best imitation of a jet engine. This time, the Prince of Hell clearly worked out where the noise had come from.

“What is your body doing?”

Gabriel opened his mouth to deny his current vessel was doing _anything_ against his will, but he realized quickly enough it would be useless; his stomach thundered like… well, _not_ like Metatron’s voice, but close enough. “Hunger,” he gritted out. “Aziraphale said it’s hunger.”

“Then you need to nourish your vessel,” Beelzebub said, matter-of-factly. “Or you’ll die.”

“I _know._ Aziraphale tried, but I can’t make myself--” Gabriel trailed off when Beelzebub waved a hand, extinguishing the Hellfire at the door. 

“Come with me,” they ordered. “I might just know what could do the trick.”

* * *

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I don’t think the food is too bad.”

“It’s not the food, it’s nice - not that _you_ would know since you keep swallowing everything without chewing. It’s Gabriel.”

“Ah,” Crowley muttered, taking a sip from his drink and leaning back against the chair, one leg stretched under the table and the other crossed over it. “I also have a bad feeling about him.”

“You do?”

“I have a lot of feelings about him and all of them are bad.”

Oh, of course. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Crowley rolled his eyes. Not that Aziraphale could see that behind the dark glasses, but he knew his demon well enough to guess that rolling was precisely what his eyeballs were doing.

“He’ll be fine. He only needs to stop being stubborn and eat something. And if he doesn’t, then he dies and it’s the circle of life. By the way, like the new direction cinema is taking? Soulless remakes of beloved classics. I think it’s one of my finest ideas yet.”

“I don’t believe it was your work for one single moment.”

Crowley made a face. “Fine, so the humans and their fancy corporations got there first. And I am _fairly_ sure corporations are something Heaven came up with. But it was among my plans.”

“Didn’t you cry watching the original?”

“What-- I did not!”

“Warlock says you did.”

“Warlock lies. He lies a _lot._ I taught him well,” Crowley shot back, tilting up his chin as though to challenge Crowley to say otherwise. Aziraphale chose not to remark having seen some smeared mascara on that particular day - angels’ memory is, of course, nothing short of miraculous - and just nodded, letting the matter drop.

“Regardless,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, setting down the chopsticks on his now empty and thoroughly cleaned plate, “I am concerned. This is unprecedented.”

“And also entirely not our problem,” Crowley pointed out. His leg bounced slightly. “It’s _his_ problem. We got him someplace to stay and basic instructions. You know, I think this is the right moment to discuss that idea we were floating around.”

“Crowley, if this is about your plan to set free every snake in the London Zoo Reptile House, it is _entirely_ yours and I will not--” Aziraphale began, only to trail off when Crowley waved a hand. 

“No, not that one, angel. I can do that on my own, thank you.”

“You _better_ not, there are _children_ visiting and last we went speak with them, the reptiles were plenty happy--”

“I’m talking about the plan to get away from London for a bit. Possibly without giving our new address to the forces of Heaven or Hell or whatnot. Somewhere in the South Downs, maybe?”

 _Our address._

Crowley spoke those words like it was the most natural thing in the world, like there weren’t just about a million implications to an angel and a demon - however _native_ they might have gone after millennia on Earth - to share the same address. And by extension, the same home. You don’t share an address without also sharing home, too. Unless of course your aim is tax evasion or something equally dishonest Aziraphale would never be caught doing. 

Not that he would be caught even if he _did it,_ of course, but that was no reason to be dishonest. 

_You go too fast for me, Crowley,_ he’d said a few decades earlier. This time, however, he said nothing. It was still fast enough to make him dizzy, but he found he was not scared. He found part of him - probably _all_ of him except for a tiny voice in the back of his head and maybe his left knee - looked forward to it.

The South Downs sounded lovely. Maybe they could find a nice cottage. 

“We could give the address to someone here on Earth,” Crowley was going on. “The Them, maybe. I like the Them. And they like me, I hope - you really want a bunch of kids who got rid of the Horsemen of Apocalypse _not_ to dislike you, am I right.”

Aziraphale smiled. He still remembered the way something in his stomach dropped when he’d seen what had been _his_ flaming sword in the hands of War; the crushing doubt - had he done the right thing, surrendering it to humanity? - had returned… only to be vanquished when a little girl had grasped its hilt and turned it against War herself.

_I believe in peace, bitch._

Well, stabbing someone with a sword might not be most people’s idea of upholding peace, but as the Romans said - if you want peace, prepare for war. It had proven him, to his utter relief, that he _had_ done the right thing… and so had Crowley, when he had given humanity the gift of knowledge, the ability to tell the difference between good and evil. Because if you don’t know how to choose, you never really have a choice, do you? That was what he’d struggled so much with. What _Gabriel_ was going to struggle with the most, probably, and it concerned him--

“... Bigger on the inside, you know?”

“What?” Aziraphale blinked, just then realizing he hadn’t been listening for the past minute. 

“The place in the South Downs, I mean. We could make it bigger on the inside. For your books.”

“Oh. Oh, right. I would take them with me. That might be bothersome--”

“You only need a suitcase.”

“It’s a _lot_ of books.”

“Bigger on the inside. Is it me, or you forget you can do miracles most of the time?”

Aziraphale shifted. “Well, not _frivolous_ ones. Last time, I got a rather strong-worded note by Gabriel and-- ah.” He blinked, and nodded to concede the point. Gabriel would not send him any more strong-worded notes. Gabriel had been fired and thrown out without a letter of warning, without even getting to put his possessions in a cardboard box. “... Well, someone will take over his duties.”

“And you really think they’ll bother telling the angel even Hellfire cannot hurt that his miracles are _frivolous?_ After what happened to good old Gabe for trying to mess with you?” Crowley grinned, leaning back to balance the chair he was on its back legs, but Aziraphale didn’t smile. It made him uncomfortable, to think about it - even if he’d tried to destroy him, he had never wished for Gabriel to be punished on his behalf.

… Or maybe he had, just a little. But not so harshly, never. 

“Well, you know, maybe Michael will--”

“Ugh, that wanker. If she does, you can tell her--”

“Good afternoon to you as well.”

_“Gah!”_

As Crowley tumbled back on the ground - oh, he really should have told him not to do that with his chair, it was an accident waiting to happen - Aziraphale looked up to see Michael standing by their table, hands folded tightly, a polite and entirely impersonal smile on her face.

“Aziraphale,” she said, voice neutral. “Mind if I join you?”

With the mind’s eye, Aziraphale saw her again - carrying the holy water Crowley was meant to die screaming in, looking ever so self-assured. Suddenly, Crowley’s grudge towards Gabriel didn’t seem so petty anymore. 

“... Very much, really,” he informed her. “But I suspect that’s not going to stop you.”

“No,” Michael agreed, taking a seat. “Not at all. Now, I suspect you have as little wish to endure my presence as I wish to endure yours, so I’ll make this quick,” she added as Crowley pulled himself and the chair back up, rubbing his head with a groan. “I have reliable information that you have met Gabriel.”

Not too long ago, that statement would have been met with some stammering and an attempt at sounding as innocent as possible. Now, to Crowley’s immense pride, Aziraphale didn’t even bother with that. “Oh?” he said politely, tilting his head on one side. “Have you not come to sample this restaurant?” He smiled innocently at her unimpressed look. “It is quite rude, you know, turning up at a restaurant and sitting at a table without ordering a thing. May I recommend a dish or two?”

“You may not,” Michael said coldly. She folded her hands on the table, looking all the world like a CEO at a meeting. Except that she wasn’t the CEO - that would be God, and last someone else had tried to replace Them things had turned kind of messy. Michael was more of a branch manager, Crowley assumed. “I have to know what transpired when he came to you.”

Well, that put Crowley before a choice: telling her to have her show up at Gabriel’s doorstep and give him a heart attack, or not saying a thing only to annoy her. Considering that he’d had plenty of chances to have some fun at Gabriel’s expenses, he went for the latter option.

“Well, good luck finding out.”

Michael’s gaze darkened. “Tell me what _happened_ after his arrival on Earth.”

“Or else what? You’re going to miracle me another rubber duck?”

“Towel!” Aziraphale exclaimed, delivering a swift and actually rather painful kick to Crowley’s shin. “I believe you _told me_ it was a towel you had her miracle for you.”

Oh, Crowley thought. Oh, right. “Ah, yes. Absolutely. That was the towel. I mean, I would have _liked_ a rubber duck, but a towel was also fine,” he muttered, glancing at Michael through the dark glasses. She looked annoyed, but not confused or suspicious, thank Satan. 

… Well, no, Satan definitely had nothing at all to do with it. Maybe he should give in and thank God, if anything because they’d made Michael and… about everyone else just dense enough not to see through their rouse. But maybe it would be best not to try their luck by bringing it up again and risk saying something that would make it obvious even to the dumbest of archangels.

“... Anyway. Duck or towel, you should know better than to try threatening us. The guys downstairs sure learned the lesson. Didn't you?”

Michael gave him a look that told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would be very happy to personally dunk him in holy water if she believed it would destroy him; Crowley had to give her a point for being much, much better than Gabriel at giving the evil eye. Then again, she _was_ known for personally throwing Lucifer out of Heaven, while Gabriel was mostly known for telling a teen virgin that she was pregnant and nearly giving her a heart attack.

Two wankers, but the one sitting across him could actually be very dangerous and maaaaybe he shouldn’t push her too far, or she might just try her luck with him.

“I have not come to threaten you,” Michael gritted out. “I have come to talk.”

“Oh, I see. Taking over Gabe’s duties as a messenger already? You were quick to replace him. Very efficient,” Crowley blurted out, his ‘do not piss off this one’ strategy already flying out of the window. He watched with keen interest the expression on Michael’s expression turning to fury and then something else - was that _guilt_ crowley had glimpsed? - before her features smoothed in a neutral look. “That is none of your concern. I demand--”

Crowley made a buzzing noise, the kind you get for a wrong answer on a television quiz. Michael gave him an annoyed look, then spoke again. “... I am here to ask what has happened since you met Gabriel.”

Aziraphale nodded politely, but made a point to have more of his drink and wiping his lips before replying. “He arrived at my doorstep. I took him in, and healed him. He panicked and ran in front of a car. I healed him _again._ We gave him some, er, instructions about life on Earth, and took him to a hotel. To give him some space.”

“To get him out of our hair,” Crowley added.

“That too,” Aziraphale conceded.

Michael ignored that last statement. “I see. When Sandalphon found him in the hotel where you left him--”

“Oh, so he found him. And what was he there to do? Tear off another couple of limbs?”

That clearly hit a nerve, because Michael slammed a hand on the table hard enough to make a couple at the far end of the room wince and turn. She was livid, anger barely in check. “Harming him was never our choice,” she hissed, almost better than Crowley would have. “We were concerned as to how he was faring.”

“How lovely,” Crowley said drily. “Why turn to us if you already know where he is?”

“Because he’s no longer there. Sandalphon called back to tell us Gabriel had... turned to Beelzebub.”

Crowley blinked. He looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looked at Crowley. Crowley raised both eyebrows. Aziraphale opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again like a fish out of water. Or like a guy who has just been told that the Archangel Gabriel ran off with Beelzebub.

“... I am sorry,” Aziraphale said slowly, brain clearly struggling to get any meaning out of the words he had just heard. “Gabe has just done what with who now?”

A rueful smile. “So much for getting answers. I assume this means it comes as a surprise to you as well.”

“One hell of a surprise, pun intended,” Crowley muttered, and scratched the back of his head. “Wait - what would good old Bub want with him?”

“Claim him on behalf of Hell,” Michael said bitterly. “As far as they are concerned, it makes no matter that he didn’t truly Fall. He was cast out, and they consider him their property now.”

“But they can’t, can they?” Aziraphale spoke up, frowning, “They cannot claim a mortal soul until, well… death.”

“But then they only have to kill him.”

“Unless he surrenders it willingly.”

“I can’t see that happening.”

“... Right. Me neither.”

“What would even happen to his soul if he dies in this mortal form?” Michael asked. Aziraphale shrugged. 

“The usual, we suppose. Either Heaven or Hell, and not a clue of which it is until it actually happens. We don’t know, Gabriel doesn’t know - and neither does Beelzebub, I’ll bet. Which, if they do want him in their ranks, is probably the reason why he’s still alive.”

Michael frowned. “I see,” she muttered. Probably not an answer she liked, but still better than the worst case scenario, Crowley supposed. Not that he’d seen much difference between Heaven and Hell when he’d last been upstairs posing as Aziraphale; over the eons since the War things sure had changed there, and for the worst. All that whiteness and huge spaces would drive anyone crazy. Maybe he would also be spoiling for war, if he was stuck up there. Crowley had no idea how or why would anyone actually wish to go back there, but Gabriel desperately wanted to.

“Maybe Bub is planning to tempt him into something that will doom him to downstairs,” Crowley suggested. “Now that’s something I’d like to see. They haven’t done any work on the field since… huh. Come to think of it, I am not entirely sure they have ever done _any_ work on the field. Being royalty and all.”

“Still, Beelzebub must have gained _some_ kind of control over Gabriel,” Michael muttered. “When Sandalphon got there… he wasn’t very coherent in his call, but he said that Gabriel had turned his back to him to hide behind Beelzebub. That makes no sense, it’s not like him at all. Why would he-- what is it?” she asked, blinking at Crowley, who had raised an arm like a school kid about to ask a question. 

“Question,” he said. “Was Sandalphon there when you yanked out Gabe's wings?”

The way she stiffened was enough of an answer on its own, but she did reply. “He was.”

“And he just… waltzed in on him? Expecting to be welcomed with open arms?”

Michael stared. Frowned. Stared some more. With some imagination - and a flaming Bentley hurtling through a ring of fire on the M25 was testament to the fact he did not lack it - Crowley could see the gears turning in her head. Finally, her frown deepening, she opened her mouth and spoke.

“... Do you think he took offense?”

“If he did-- take offense--” Crowley stammered, then snorted. “For what, getting a pair of wings yanked out of their sockets?” He gestured wildly, almost hitting a waiter who was only trying to pass by while balancing several dishes, a pile of glasses, and his own fragile mental health. “While he screamed and begged for you to stop? _Naaaah._ Who’d be that petty?”

Michael seemed unsure as to what to reply; not too surprising, really. Angels were the kind who showed themselves to humans in blinding looking like wheels within wheels, with a thousand eyes and multiple animal heads, yelling at them with voice like thunder to ‘FEAR NOT’. It had taken them an embarrassingly long time to realize there were better ways to go about it, after a few heart attacks the Bible did not mention. In the end, Michael turned to Aziraphale. 

He shrugged. “That is sarcasm,” he informed her. “He did take offense.”

“And he’s probably terrified of the lot of you,” Crowley muttered. “I mean, hiding behind Beelzebub? You’ve got to be desperate. Aaaand pretty foolish, really. They’re not known as someone to give _help_ to those who need it _._ ” 

Not anymore, anyway. It had been a very, very long time since the Fall. What they had been before then was a distant memory, for all of them. Unaware of this thoughts, Michael seemed to take offense herself. 

“He has no reason to fear us. God did not order us to… to harm him further.”

“Is that supposed to reassure him?”

Another confused look. “It ought to.”

Ah, archangels. So out of touch. So amazingly clever and so incredibly stupid. Crowley opened his mouth to say as much, but Aziraphale got there first.

“Was he told that? That he meant no harm?”

“Of course! Sandaphon told him to--”

“Fear not?” Crowley guessed.

“Of course! And that he would not be harmed - he wouldn’t listen!”

Aziraphale nodded. “It sounds like trauma.”

“Trauma?”

“It’s… a human thing. He fears you.”

“Because he _is_ human now,” Crowley pointed out, and leaned forward on the table, chin resting on the palm of his hand. “Which raises the question, why are you pursuing him? He’s not one of yours anymore. You cast him out. Not your problem, no?”

Ah, there is was, the anger - looming behind her eyes like thunderclouds. Not too long ago, she might have tried to smite him and would have probably won; but, after the little show he and Aziraphale put up with each other’s faces, she clearly hesitated to start a fight. Not with Aziraphale there to back him up, at least. 

“It is none of your concern,” she gritted out, and stood. “As you won’t cooperate, consider this meeting closed.”

“What, are we supposed to believe the lot of you won’t be watching us like hawks, hoping we can get you to him? What makes you think we can? Beelzebub got him. Good luck getting hi-”

“We can get in touch with him, I believe.”

A groan. “Come _on,_ angel,” Cowley protested. Aziraphale gave him an apologetic look, then turned back to Michael. Who, on the other hand, looking sceptical. 

“You can?”

“Well, we have been nice enough to help him out, despite our… differences,” Aziraphale replied, ignoring Crowley’s low groan at the word ‘nice’. Also, ‘difference’ was an interesting way to spell out ‘the fact he tried to destroy me’. “And we might still have the means to contact him..”

“Then do it.”

“Later.”

“What-- why?”

Aziraphale leaned back on the chair, folding his hands. “First of all, because we were having a lovely time and intend to keep doing so. Secondly, if he knew we have been in touch, and is so keen to avoid you, he might no longer turn to us for help. So it is best for you to leave before we contact him. We’ll figure out what’s going on and I’ll get back to you”

“How do I know you will?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well, I said I’d try to stop the Apocalypse, and in the end I did.” No need to let her know that they had done… next to nothing, really, other than running around a lot like headless chickens and eventually just giving a pep talk to Adam. “I do keep my promises.”

“Also, you have no choice,” Crowley informed her. "If you don't leave, we won't do a thing."

She clearly wasn’t happy, but in the end, there wasn’t much she could argue; for once, they held all the cards. As she stiffly left the restaurant - “I’ll be waiting for your call” - Crowley groaned. 

“We had a chance to get them both out of our hair,” he muttered, leaning back

“Crowley.”

“We don’t even know what the Heaven is happening with Beelzebub. Maybe Gabe has already been dragged to Hell somehow. Probably doesn’t have the phone anymore.”

“Well, it’s worth a try,” was the response. As Aziraphale fished the phone out of his pocket to call Gabriel’s number, Crowley made a face and turned to the entrance. Michael was gone. 

“And here I’d hoped the show we put on had scared the lot of them enough to leave us alone.”

“Oh, it did work, that’s the thing.”

“Huh?”

“That’s why I said yes,” Aziraphale said, looking from the phone. “She never wore her heart on her sleeve, but I can tell she _is_ afraid of both of us. And yet she took the risk to turn to us anyway.”

Ah. Crowley suspected he was starting to see his point. “To find that arse.”

A nod, and he scrolled down to Gabriel’s number. “Yes. To find that arse.”

* * *

“I am not an expert in human etiquette, but I believe you’re supposed to close your mouth when you chew.”

“Mghf?”

“You’re making a fool out of yourself,” Beelzebub snorted, propping their chin on their hand and raising an eyebrow as Gabriel bit down on what was probably the fourth Lardburger in a row. Before him there was still a mountain of greasy, cheap junk food that would have given Aziraphale something remarkably similar to a stroke if only he knew Gabriel had rejected the finest sushi in London to stuff his face with… _that._

“Not bad, is it? Hell came up with it last century - caused a wonderful increase in heart disease. It is addictive, by the way. Maybe I should have mentioned it before… before I… are you listening at all?”

Clearly not: entirely ignoring Beelzebub’s attempt at gloating over a small victory, Gabriel threw aside the empty wrapped of the Lardburger and proceeded to empty the bag of fries directly into his mouth. A few children - annoying, loud human children - a couple of times over looked at him, giggling. The Lord of the Flies rolled their eyes. 

“I have seen famine victims acting with more dignity,” they informed Gabriel, getting no reaction at all: he just kept stuffing his face with the utter abandon Dagon would show before a brand new victim to torment. In the end they just leaned back and watched, mildly amused against their own will. They suspected that fool was going to regret losing control like that but oh, why try to warn him while he was so clearly not inclined to listen? Let him go on and find out the fun way just how frail his vessel was. 

“You should drink something with that,” they finally said, deadpan, pushing the can of soda towards Gabriel and holding back a smirk. They were vaguely aware of a human saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and they could only come to the conclusion that maybe so did the way to a former archangel’s soul.

 _Before the week if out, he’ll be ours,_ Beelzebub thought, perhaps just a _little_ too optimistic considering that stuffing one’s face with greasy fast food was not precisely a sin, let alone one worth damnation - regardless what an angel called Aziraphale might have to say about that. They just sat back, and waited for Gabriel's gluttony to be sated.

Meanwhile, in Gabriel’s empty hotel room, a cell phone kept ringing uselessly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dead flies make a perfumer's oil stink, so a little foolishness is weightier than wisdom and honor."  
> Ecclesiastes 10:1


	7. Psalm 55:6 - Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After misplacing the Antichrist, it seems only fair they also kinda lose a former Archangel.

“Uuugh.”

“You don’t look too good.”

“I think my midsection is about to burst and-- wait, did you-- did you poison me? Is this how poison works?”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes, still walking by his side. However crowded the pavement got, people around them subconsciously gave them a berth to let them walk undisturbed. Which was good, really, given how slowly the former Archangel Gabriel was going. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want to risk you dying and going back to Heaven any more than you want to risk dying and being sent to Hell. I certainly would help if God bothered to make their intentions clear.”

“Tell me about it,” Gabriel muttered, his voice sour. It wasn’t quite an insult, no blasphemy yet, but the Prince of Hell was rather confident they would get that out of him before long.

“You overestimated how much nourishment your mortal body can take all at once, that is all. Are you certain you don’t want to come to rest at my place?”

Gabriel, blinked, and glanced down. “... Are you trying to get me to accept an invitation to Hell?”

That gained him a rather annoyed look, the faint smile at the corner of Beelzebub’s lips fading. Gabriel couldn’t hold back a smile that was… just a  _ little _ smug. 

“I’m too well-versed when it comes to the fine print. You’ll have to try better.”

_ “Mph.” _

“Either way, you could have  _ warned _ me that humans are not meant to eat huge amounts.”

“That would have been nice of me, I suppose.”

“Yes, it  _ would  _ have been--”

“You don’t become the Prince of Hell by being nice,” Beelzebub cut him off. 

“Ah. Right,” Gabriel muttered feeling just a little sheepish. If Beelzebub noticed, they made no mention of it.

“Good to see you get my point. You’ll be fine, anyway. I have already been far nicer to you than my job description would allow,” Beelzebub pointed out, and glanced ahead. There was the hotel, only a short distance away across the street. “I see no reason to return there. Just give up and take your place in Hell. You might even get a good rank, if you stay on my good side.”

“You  _ have _ a good side?”

“No, not really.”

“I rest my case.”

A scoff, and Beelzebub glared up, crossing their arms. “Regardless, returning to that hotel room is useless as it is stupid.  _ They _ know they can find you there. You don’t really think they’ll just let go of you so easily, do you?”

The comment was enough to make the faint smile on Gabriel’s face disappear. “I-- there is a phone I need to pick up. A suitcase, a… er, a book. And maybe they did give up. There is nothing they could possibly want from me now. Nothing worth the trouble of dealing with you, at any rate.”

“... I’ll choose to consider that a compliment. So, do you expect me to protect you  _ again _ should they show up?”

“Why, you’d let me be taken from right under your nose?” Gabriel asked, feigning innocence, which was… something he was rather good at, or at least so he’d liked to think. He didn’t really think the purpose of looking for him was to take him back home - he’d been cast out, painful as it was to admit it; they wouldn’t defy God to take him back and be all cast out with him - but still, it seemed to work. Beelzebub narrowed their eyes.

“You are still as insufferable as before.”

Gabriel made an effort to keep his expression neutral and not grin. It was amazing, really, how much difference some nourishment could make, bursting stomach or not. “I’ll choose to consider that a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

_ Coming from you it was,  _ Gabriel thought, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut, still acutely aware of how easily the Lord of the Flies could turn his existence into… not  _ literal  _ Hell, or else they’d be there already, but something remarkably close at any rate. 

“Besides, didn’t you  _ want _ to return to Heaven?”

“I-- of course I do!”

“Clearly. Would be interesting, given that you’re terrified of your old friends. But I don’t plan on letting it happen.”

Gabriel refrained from rolling his eyes. “Of course. And I don’t suppose--” he began, only to trail off when he turned back and Beelzebub was… not there. They’d just disappeared, without even a lick of flame or a puff of smoke and sulphur. It was both anticlimactic and, to be honest, rather annoying. So much for coming in with him. Why in the world had they--

“Gabriel!”

_ Ah. That’s why. _

Aziraphale was crossing the street quickly to get to him, looking amazingly relieved. The demon was there, too, getting out of the car and walking up to him with that really odd gait that, Gabriel was fairly certain, he had never observed in a human. As Crowley spoke, none of them noticed the fly that buzzed past.

“You know, that thing we gave you is a mobile phone. You know why it’s called mobile? Because where you go, it goes. As long as you take it with you, clearly.”

Gabriel frowned. “I am aware. We have those in Heaven.”

“You mean,  _ they _ have those in Heav--”

“Regardless,” Aziraphale spoke up a little more loudly than it was strictly necessary, cutting him off with a look that felt like a metaphorical stomp on the foot to shut him up, “it would be best if you kept it with you at all times. We tried to call you, and as there was no response. Did Beelzebub harm you?”

“No, they--” Gabriel trailed off, and blinked. “What-- how do you know--?”

“Oh, Michael told us.”

_ Michael.  _ The name alone was enough for Gabriel’s heart to stop. Metaphorically, of course - humans died when the heart stopped and he did not feel dead - but it certainly did feel like that steady beat had paused a moment or two. He tried to speak and he couldn’t, and feeling like something had grasped his throat. The scars where his wings had been ached a moment, a distant echo of the pain when--

_ Be still. You’ll make it easier, Gabriel. Please, be still. _

“We told her to keep away,” Aziraphale reassured him, and reached out to steady him when he took a shaky step back. “No one will harm you. Come inside and tell us what happened.”

* * *

"Wait, wait, hold up. You had a  _ lunch date _ with Beelzebub?" 

The expression on Crowley’s face as those words left him would have been that of someone who's just been told his birthday came early, if only he wasn't so utterly confused it was more than a little frustrating. It was like trying to imagine… Aziraphale stealing candy from a child, probably, which of course he would never do. 

Even if he might try to gun down a child, provided that said child was also the Antichrist and the fate of the world was at stake. Crowley hadn’t expected him to really try, he had to hand it to him.He’d been rather impressed, if slightly terrified. 

As a response, Gabriel scoffed indignantly. "Heavens, no! It was strictly professional," he retorted, entirely ignoring the fact he no longer had a  _ profession  _ to speak of and that would give him any reason at all to hold a meeting with the Prince of Hell. The look Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged probably got that message across, because Gabriel crossed his arms and looked away, leaning back against the backrest of the otherwise emoty couch. By some  _ miracle, _ no one else needed to sit in the lobby of the hotel at the moment. 

"... I was weakened and needed nourishment. They just took me someplace to find edible matt-- food. That is all."

“They did? And you ate?” Aziraphale seemed surprised, more by the fact Gabriel had actually eaten than by the detail said meal had been offered by Beelzebub. “What did you eat?”

Gabriel seemed slightly embarrassed. “Well, I had to, sooner or later. It was not… terrible. I had a few-- I think they called it lardburger?”

Oh, ouch, wrong answer. Aziraphale stepped back as though slapped, mouth opening and closing as he tried and failed to find words. He turned to look at Crowley, absolutely  _ outraged.  _ Crowley - who was known to occasionally devour Happy Meals in one gulp, toy included in one or two memorable occasions - made a point to look suitably outraged himself, as moral support.

Plus, he’d sooner assemble and then swallow an IKEA bookshelf than say anything that might even vaguely sound like he meant to take Gabriel’s side.

“Did you-- did you  _ hear _ what he said?”

“I did, angel. Unbelievable,” he agreed, shaking his head. 

Gabriel just seemed… very confused. “Is that-- bad?”

“If it’s bad!” Aziraphale’s voice was a couple of octaves higher than usual, looking at Gabriel like he’d just confessed to having eaten a newborn kitten. Or, well, the one forbidden fruit on the one forbidden tree in the middle of a garden with a real big ‘Forbidden, Do Not Eat’ sign. Which was probably what crossed Gabriel’s mind as well, if the horrified look on his face the next moment was anything to go by.

“What-- what is it?” Gabriel asked, his voice a little weaker, eyes shifting between the two of them. He seemed to be catching up on the fact that maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ the Prince of Hell is not someone you should  _ metaphorically _ accept candy from. “What did they have me eat?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Oh, now you ask! Rubbish, is what they had you eat!”

“It-- didn’t taste like--”

“You refuse the  _ finest food _ you can find in London, and then you gorge yourself on  _ lardburgers _ \- the nerve--!”

As Crowley watched, Gabriel thought process was so obvious that it may as well have been written on his face. Did he understand exactly what was it that Aziraphale found so upsetting? No, of course, because he probably couldn’t tell a steak from the sole of a shoe. Did he at least understand that he had done Something Wrong? Yes. And what was the great classic, the excuse everyone pulled out of their asses in the good old days after doing Something Wrong?

_ The Serpent tempted me _ , Crowley thought. It had been true in Eve’s case, of course, but more often than not it was only a pretty sad excuse for things he’d had absolutely nothing to do with.

“Beelzebub tempted me,” Gabriel blurted out. Granted, in his case there  _ might _ just be more than a grain of truth to the claim. Why the Prince of Hell would bother tempting a former Archangel into eating junk food, Crowley had no idea. They sure were out of practice when it came to work on the field; Crowley had suspected as much, but this set the bar… almost depressingly low.

Unless some junk turned out to actually be enough to buy Gabriel’s loyalty, which would set the bar even lower, but the other way around.

_ And they had the nerve to look unimpressed with what I did to the M25. Wanker. _

“Well, that’s no excuse-- I mean, you are--” an Archangel, Aziraphale was clearly about to say, but he held back just on time, much to Crowley’s relief. Fun as it was, he didn’t feel like sitting through another identity crisis right now. He let out a long breath. “Right. First thing first, I would  _ really _ appreciate you not spending time with the Prince of Hell.”

Gabriel’s eyes shifted from Aziraphale to Crowley. Crowley grinned. Gabriel’s eyes turned back to Aziraphale, who stammered a bit. 

“Ah, he-- well-- first of all I was-- we were always equal in power and-- and he never had any plans to drag  _ me _ to Hell,” he added, crossing his arms. “So, it’s not the same thing.”

“I didn’t precisely decide to fraternize with-- Sandalphon just showed up, and--”

“And you’d sooner deal with Beelzebub than with Sandalphon?”

Gabriel met Aziraphale’s gaze, deadpan. “Wouldn’t you?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to deny, paused, closed it again… and nodded. “... Point taken. I mean, if he meant me harm, but he doesn’t. They’re concerned about you.”

“Concerned.” Gabriel’s features twisted. “Forgive me if I have some trouble believing it.”

That gained him a long look. “I am forgiving by nature, unlike  _ others _ I shall not name,” Aziraphale said drily. “But you ought to know better. You know they never  _ wanted  _ to do what they did to you.”

“But they did,” Gabriel retorted, causing Crowley to roll his eyes and open his mouth - but Aziraphale got there first, voice much sharper than it usually was.

“Oh, so you’d have defied God’s order in their place?” he asked, catching Gabriel by surprise. He blinked, rearing back as though struck as Aziraphale kept going. “Had it been you receiving the order and Michael the one on the ground, would you have refused to do what God asked of you?”

“I…”

“Look at me in the eye, tell me you would have, and you’ll have won the argument.”

Gabriel looked at him in the eye, all right, but he didn’t say a thing. He looked rather lost, then his gaze shifted on Crowley as though he hoped he’d give him the answer. Crowley smiled and stuck out a forked tongue, causing him to recoil and flatten himself against the backrest with a grimace of disgust. Aziraphale sighed. 

“Crowley.”

“Angel.”

“Tell me you did not do the tongue thing.”

“I didn’t do the tongue thing.”

“Gabriel, did he do the tongue thing?”

“Well--”

“There’s a special place in Hell for snitches, Gabe. I would know, I visited it. It’s not the best corner of Hell.”

“... He didn’t do the tongue thing?”

_ A terrible liar, of course. Ugh. Archangels.  _

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Aziraphale groaned. “Fine, fine - listen, they are concerned about you, whether you want to believe it or not. But you don’t have to meet them if you don’t wish to. We’ll tell them you’re well, and that you wish not to see them. They will leave you alone.”

Gabriel nodded, looking away. “... Good,” he said, nothing in his tone suggesting he felt good in the slightest. 

“That leaves the problem of Beelzebub,” Aziraphale added, and glanced at Crowley. “Any idea how he may have found him?”

A shrug. “Not a clue. Maybe they were keeping an eye on us.”

“Ah, may be. So much for leaving us alone.”

“Well, they didn’t  _ try _ anything.”

“They fear you,” Gabriel spoke up, his voice flat, causing both Crowley and Aziraphale to glance back at him. “They disappeared when you approached. Everyone fears you, above and below.”

Ah, yes, that. Their plan had worked wonderfully. If Agnes Nutter had a marked grave anywhere, Crowley would have gone to leave some fresh flowers on it. “As they should,” he said, grinning. Aziraphale seemed… just  _ slightly _ pleased before he spoke again. 

“Either way, now that they know where to find you, you can’t stay here. We’ll find someplace for you to stay. I’ll deal with the front desk - pick up your things, we’re leaving in five minutes.”

“I might need longer,” Gabriel said, and it was only then that Crowley noticed he was a little green in the face. He looked moments away from imitating the projectile-vomiting scenes from The Exorcist, only that this time it wouldn’t be pea soup to fly through the air. “I-- don’t feel great.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “How many burgers did you eat?”

“Nine, I think.”

_ “Nine?” _

“And fries.”

“... Your first ever meal.”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Perhaps Beelzebub  _ was  _ trying to kill you after all. All right, take your time. We’ll wait here.”

Watching Gabriel get in the lift - would he be able  _ not _ to throw up during the ride up? Was he event familiar with the concept of throwing up, or was instinct doing the work for him? - Crowley let out a sigh, and sat down more comfortably, waiting for him to return and discussing their next move with Aziraphale.

Embarrassingly enough, it took a good while for them to start wondering what was taking Gabriel so long - and, by then, it was too late.

* * *

Human bodies, Gabriel thought for the eighteenth time in less than twenty-four hours, were positively gross. He felt reasonably better and not as bloated, but there still was a bitter taste in his mouth, his throat burned, and he’d needed two showers before he’d felt reasonably clean again - it helped that there was lavender soap, he found he liked the smell of lavender - and about ten minutes to figure out a toothbrush.

By the time he was done, he felt… better. He’d only needed to open the suitcase to find clean clothes - including a tracksuit, like he could possibly be in the mood to go jogging at the moment. Still, he’d put it on, along with the trainers; given what he was about to do, he’d reasoned, may as well dress comfortably. He’d put on the coat, which had a wallet full of money in the internal pocket, turned off the mobile phone, and headed outside… but not towards the lobby. 

An open window at the ground floor was all that he needed to slip away unnoticed. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing he could possibly do given his predicament, but he found he couldn’t stand the idea of depending on Aziraphale and his pet demon for one more moment. Putting up with Crowley and his continuous insults was taxing enough, but somehow what he was truly growing weary of were Aziraphale’s genuine attempts at helping him.

He meant well, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? That was the uncomfortable part. Gabriel had tried to destroy him with Hellfire - something God wasn clearly unhappy about - and somehow he was still looking for ways to help him. 

_ “Don't talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I'm the Archangel fucking Gabriel.” _

_ A crime born of pride. _

_ “Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”  _

_ He attempted to take God’s judgment upon himself. _

Utterly unfamiliar with the concept of having done something wrong, Gabriel couldn’t quite identify the gnawing sensation in his gut as  _ guilt _ \- but he found it unpleasant and it grew worse whenever he spoke to Aziraphale, so putting some distance between them seemed the best course of action at the moment. 

He just needed to get away. Have some time on his own, possibly without interferences from Hell, or Heaven, or whatever gray spot those two fit. Maybe God would speak to him then, send him a sign, tell him what to  _ do.  _ Because oh, he was so lost. 

… Literally lost. He had no idea where he’d ended up - a park, but which one? - and it was beginning to get dark. Gabriel didn’t much care for darkness: everything was always so bright and luminous in Heaven, whenever he visited Earth, it was usually during the day. It had been a very long time since anything had kept him there through the night. Well, there had been last night, but he hardly remembered it through the haze of pain, which was probably for the best.

Gabriel looked up to see the clouds above him set aflame by the setting sun. He still remembered the  _ first _ sunset, right after Earth’s creation; it was a novelty and he’d been suitably impressed - of course, all of God’s work is impressive. He hadn’t really looked down to see many of them since. Coming to think of it, maybe sunsets looked best when viewed from below.

Gabriel kept staring up for another minute or two or ten as the orange-pink clouds turned red, then purple, and began to darken. Soon enough there would be stars, and he hadn't yet found a place to spend the ni--

"Oi, mate. Are you all right there?"

"Huh?" Gabriel recoiled and looked down to see a man sitting only a few feet away, back against a tree. Right by, half-hidden by some bushes, was what looked like a small tent. The man, who was easily twice Gabriel's weight as well as being a good head shorter, shrugged.

"Just wondering if all is well. You've been staring up for a while."

"Ah. I was-- lost in thought."

"I see." The man scratched his cheek, which was covered in short, graying beard. "Say, do you have any change?"

"Change?" Gabriel repeated. "I'm not sure what-- oh! Money! You mean money, right?" he exclaimed, feeling rather proud of himself for the epiphany. The man, on the other hand, seemed a little taken aback.

"Well, yes - but don't worry if you don't have it. Little cash to go around nowadays, eh? Most people pay everything by card, bit of a bummer but I guess it's how--"

"No, no, I do - I do have money," Gabriel said, pulling the wallet out of the pocket of his jacket. He lifted it up. "See?"

That gained him a smile. "Ah, great," the man said.

Gabriel smiled. The man kept smiling back. Then he blinked. Gabriel's smile faded. Where would the conversation even go from there? He did have money, but why had he asked-- ah, wait. Wait. "Oh! You asked because you want it, right?"

The man's expression grew cautious. "Listen, if you don't want to give anything you don't have to. You're not one of those posh arseholes who burn money in front of the homeless, are you?"

Gabriel blinked. "Why would anyone do that? Isn't money a valuable asset?"

The man seemed to relax, and the guarded expression melted into a faint smile. "Ah, beats me. Some do that, like those bastards in Eton. Our Prime Minister was one of them. Says everything about him, really."

Gabriel had only a vague recollection of having heard this 'Eton' mentioned once or twice, so he decided not to dwell on that. Instead, he opened the wallet and stared down at the wad of bills in it. He had no idea how much any of them was worth; he'd always just miracled the correct amount in his pocket whenever he had needed to pay for goods or services on Earth - which usually meant paying a taylor. In the end, he picked one out at random and held it out. 

"Is this enough?" he asked, gaining himself a stare. A pair of dark green eyes stared at him for several moments, moved to the bill, then back to him - so either it was too little or too much, but it was a bit late to correct that now. The man took the bill, held it up for a closer look, and gave an astonished laugh.

"If it's-- well, it's more than I get in a week, sometimes," he muttered, and his voice seemed to shake for a moment. He smiled, showing off a broken front tooth. "God bless you, mate."

"I don't think the Almighty has any intention to bless me," Gabriel muttered sourly, and shrugged at the questioning look. "I have… sort of been fired."

"Ah, Christ.”

“No, it wasn’t him to-- well. Close enough.”

“I'm sorry. I've been there - I was made redundant, just like that. Thirty years and they fired me with an email, can you believe it?"

Gabriel, who had been an Archangel for a bit longer than thirty years and would have probably preferred to be fired via email if he got a chance to choose, nodded. "I can imagine."

"Yes, it's the worst. And Universal Credit is such a clusterfuck - a couple of wrong forms, a skipped appointment, the payments were cut, and I couldn't afford rent anymore," the man added, gesturing towards the tent. "I really hope you can find your feet soon."

Ah. That. "I have sort of been evicted as well," Gabriel muttered, gaining himself a startled look.

"You were? And where are you staying?"

"... Nowhere, at the moment."

A frown, and suddenly the bill was being held up again, for him to take. "Then I can't accept this. We're on the same boat."

It was tempting, really - especially since he didn't know exactly  _ how much _ money he'd just handed over - but Gabriel shook his head. His standing before God may be ruined beyond repair, but it didn't take much brainpower to guess taking back charity would be frowned upon.

"No, it's fine. Keep it. I don't think money is going to solve my problem."

A sigh. "That's what everyone with money says, until the money's gone," was the reply, but he did put the bill in his pocket before glancing over at him. "... Is this going to be your first night sleeping rough?"

Gabriel thought back of the previous night, of the moment he had collapsed in the doorway of Aziraphale's store. That part, he did remember. It had been less than twenty-four hours; it felt like weeks. "The second."

"Ah, I see. This isn't a bad spot - public toilets that way, and a fountain to wash up. I'll move somewhere in a Tube station when winter comes, but for now, this isn't bad. You may want to invest in a sleeping bag." He reached over to take something he had left on the grass - two cans of... something. Beer, maybe. Gabriel had never tried beer. He had never tried anything alcoholic at all.

"Come have a drink," the man said, "and tell me what happened to you."

* * *

“What do you mean, what happened-- nothing  _ happened, _ Michael. Beelzebub didn’t drag him to Hell, you know they can’t do that. We just talked to him and he doesn’t want to see you. Or Uriel. Or Sandalphon. Or anybody from upstairs. As I believe youngsters say these days, he’s… savoury?” Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, who mouthed ‘salty’. Ah, for Heaven’s sake, he never got that right. Ah well. He’d remember it next time.

“I mean, he’s-- no no no, I don’t believe you’re in a position to make demands. He is well and we--  _ I’ll _ make sure no harm comes to him. Yes, I am aware that Beelzebub wants to claim him. I’ll keep an eye out for them. I have to go now. Talk to your soon. Or not, I’ll live either way.”

As Aziraphale ended the call with a groan, Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think Michael is going to back off for long?”

“Of course she isn’t,” Aziraphale muttered. He sighed, and let his gaze wander across the empty room. Of course he’d tried to call Gabriel immediately after realizing he was gone, but it seemed his phone was turned off. “... Do you think Beelzebub got him?”

Crowley shook his head. “You know that’s not how it works, angel. And besides he changed clothes, took the coat, took the wallet, and took the phone. You don’t pause to grab your wallet when the Lord of the Flies is dragging you to Hell kicking and screaming, unless you think Satan takes bribes. Which he doesn’t. To my knowledge.”

Another groan, and Aziraphale rubbed his temples. “... So we lost him.”

“Yep,” Crowley agreed, glancing out of the window to the darkening sky. “We lost him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.”  
> Psalm 55:6


	8. James 2:14 - Deeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Insert joke about an archangel loose in London here*

“So what’s your plan? Making me drive around at random just in case he happens to walk by?”

“Do you have a better idea? One single-”

“Say ‘one single better idea’, angel, and I’m kicking you out of the car.”

“No, you won’t.”

The certainty in Aziraphale’s voice was honestly infuriating. Crowley made a face, taking a rather daring turn while overtaking a lorry. “How come you always assume I won’t follow up on my threats?”

“Because you never do.”

“Well, it might be all part of my plan to deceive you.”

“Oh?”

“Like crying wolf, but the smart way. And when you least expect it, I _will_ follow through.”

“That _would_ be diabolical,” Aziraphale conceded, trying and failing to hold back an amused smile. “You wily old serp-- the bus! Watch out! This would be-- oh, the _most_ inconvenient time to get discorporated!”

“Don’t worry, I’ve been driving since before driving licences were invented.”

“You’d have _never_ passed the test.”

“You only say that because _you_ tried and failed.” A swerve to the left, then a sigh. “This is hopeless. I have no better ideas but I can tell you, you do _not_ find a missing guy in London by just driving around and hoping to bump into him. Not _literally_ bump into him. But I’d like to.”

“He can’t have gone that far.”

“He might have if he hopped on the Tube. Maybe he did. Went all the way to Heathrow, got on a plane, fucked off to… don’t know, Tenerife or something. A nice place, except when planes crash on each other at Los Rodeos. I got a commendation for that, but had nothing to do with it.”

Aziraphale groaned, rubbing his face. “I don’t know how I’d explain that to Michael.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to Michael,” Crowley reminded him, and glanced over as Aziraphale pulled out his phone and tried to make a call. “Still nothing?”

“Nothing. He must have turned it off, or maybe it ran out of… no, it’s supposed to never run out of battery. He just turned it off.”

“Or some guy on a moped snatched it right out of his hand. Happens a lot.”

“Let’s… assume that did not happen. For my sanity,” Aziraphale muttered. “He’ll… turn it back on, sooner or later.”

“That would be ideal. We could get in and pop out on his side, and then proceed to stick the phone up his--”

“Crowley.”

“What? He just ran off on us - and we’ve been trying to _help,_ and to great personal cost in my case _._ Why would he do that?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Maybe he needed some time alone. Maybe he felt upset, or humiliated.” A pause. “... Maybe he’s just an idiot.”

“Now you’re making sense,” Crowley muttered, turning to glance at the street around them, then sighed. “This is hopeless. Our best bet is waiting for him to turn on that phone or call,” he said. Aziraphale could only nod.

As the car pulled away from the curb to return to the bookshop, a fly buzzed out of the rolled-down window.

* * *

Later on, once he would be able to think straight again and that awful sickness - hangover, it was called - was gone, Gabriel would be rather grateful for the fact nearly everything he'd said had been dismissed as the ramblings of a drunken man. 

Because he _was_ drunk and he _did_ ramble. A lot. 

"So. You were cast out of Heaven just last night, huh?"

"Yeeeeeessir. Just-- off with the wings-- and I got a penis at some point-- boom, a bolt of lighting-- and I landed in the middle of Soho."

A raised eyebrow. "Oh, of course. As you do. Aliens land in Manhattan every single time, seems only fair we get angels in Soho. And how may I call you?" the man asked with a laugh, leaning back against the tree and taking another swig himself. He'd drunk easily three times Gabriel's amount, and wasn't even tipsy. 

Gabriel took another swig himself. He found it pleasant, how it went down his throat and how _warm_ he felt. Like nothing was wrong, or at least nothing he couldn't fix. "Archangel Fucking Gabriel," he informed him, leaning forward with a grin. "Going by Gabriel F Archer now, but-- wait. Waaait-- Hah! I _just_ got what the F stands for!"

Another laugh. "Hah! Nice to meet you, Archangel Fucking Gabriel. My name's Daniel Brown."

Oooh, now that was a familiar one. Gabriel grinned widely, leaning forward. "Daniel! I knew someone named Daniel! My favorite prophet!"

"Oh? So you met him?"

"Yes! He had visions, I was sent to explain them to him, and-- hah!" Gabriel threw back his head and burst into laughter to the point his sides almost hurt. He wheezed out the rest of the story, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "I'm there all 'fear not, fear not', but he got so scared, he fell flat on his face right there and then! It was _hilarious,_ I tell you - I had to pick him up from the ground. He was ill for days. Frail stuff, mortals,” Gabriel added, blissfully forgetful of how he’d stopped a car with his face earlier that day, and needed to be miracled back to health before his mortal life could be snuffed out. “Delicate."

“Hu-uh. You know, I think I might have to pick _you_ up from the ground if you have any more to drink. You really can’t hold alcohol, can you?” 

Gabriel entirely ignored him. He took another swig and then sniggered before raising his hands and repeating what he’d thundered to the _other_ Daniel, so long ago. “ _Behold! I will make known to you what will happen in the latter time of wrath, because it concerns the appointed time of the end--_ hey! Hey!”

“No more for tonight,” Daniel said, holding the bottle well out of Gabriel’s reach. His arms flailed uselessly, and he almost tumbled forward; a hand braced against his shoulder was the only thing that spared his face a meeting with the ground. Which was soft, really, the way grassy soil is. Come to think of it, his eyelids were beginning to feel heavy. Maybe he should sleep, wasn’t that what humans did when their head spun and eyelids got heavy? Take a nap?

“Ah, look at you. Drunk as a skunk after half a bottle, and you’re not that small!” 

A laugh, and a pair of hands grasped him under the shoulders, brushing where his wings had been. The memory of what had happened almost made it back to his mind, but the laughing voice above him was reassuring enough and it did not. Gabriel looked up to see the moon winking at him through the tree branches, and thought that it didn’t look so pretty from Heaven. 

Then he shut his eyes, and for a time he didn’t think about anything at all.

* * *

“... They _lost_ an archangel.”

The incredulity in Dagon’s tone would have been slightly insulting, if Beelzebub had allowed themselves to think that, technically, _they_ had lost him as well. A few minutes without watching him, and he’d taken off. Figuratively, of course, because he still didn’t have wings.

While listening to the conversation between the Traitor Crowley and That Other Traitor From Upstairs had given them no clue as to where That Insufferable Archangel may be, it had at least reassured them that the Heavenly forces had no idea either. They didn’t even know he was missing, which gave Beelzebub an advantage they had no intention to squander. 

“Yes, they lost him. I haven’t called you here to repeat what I said. I have called you here to _find_ him. I want all demons available on the ground in London, immediately.”

Dagon nodded, efficient as always. At least something, Beelzebub thought, still worked the way it was supposed to. “Of course. What should they do once they find him? Contain him, or--”

“No,” Beelzebub cut her off, waving their hand, which also served to scare a few flies away, if only for a moment. “Once he’s found, they’ll report to me. I already told you, this is personal.”

A nod. “Right. I’ll get all our demons searching.”

“Good. It is _imperative_ that they find him before… those two do it. Or the ones upstairs. The pathetic little lie they were fed won’t buy us much time.”

“Of course,” Dagon nodded and turned to leave, only to pause when Beelzebub called her back. 

“Remind them to avoid any confrontation with the traitors. It’s not that we _fear_ them, of course,” they added, just a little too quickly. “But we truly don’t need the hassle.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“And the archangel is not to be harmed. I still believe we can win him over for our cause. Any demon who harms him will have to face my wrath - makes sure we’re clear on that.”

Dagon - who was the Master of Torments for a reason and also just so happened to have a drill on her - smiled, showing off two rows of sharp teeth. “I’ll _drill_ it in their minds,” she said.

Beelzebub’s gaze fell on her coat. “Tell me you don’t have a drill in your pocket.”

Dagon’s smile widened as they held it out. “About my application for the title of Master of Puns-”

“I am not hearing this,” Beelzebub droned. Truth be told, they didn’t even remember where the application had ended up. It was entirely possible someone had used it to clean after the Hellhound before it was sent out to find the Antichrist and proceed to do absolutely nothing of any use. “You are the Master of Torments _and_ Lord of the Files. Two titles are enough.”

_And I’ll throw myself into a giant fly trap before I let you have one more title than I do._

Dagon looked disappointed, but didn’t argue. No one with even an inkling of common sense would start arguing with the Prince of Hell.

Gabriel had, of course. It had been annoying, when he’d been an Archangel; being challenged by him while he was an infinitely weaker mortal whose life could be snuffed out like a candle thrown in the ocean from the deck of the Titanic had been… more on the amusing side.

Gabriel did not, in fact, possess an inkling of common sense. Back before the Fall… back before the Fall--

Beelzebub let out a buzzing noise at the sudden pain in their head, the flies around them dancing wildly, and immediately dropped that thought. It was pointless; Satan himself aside, they remembered very little of who they were and what they did before the Fall. And it was fine.

If something hurt to remember, it wasn’t worth the trouble of remembering at all.

* * *

Gabriel’s head hurt.

He could have complained, but at the moment he couldn’t find it in himself to. As far as his extremely limited experience in awakenings went, this one - waking up with a headache inside a blue tent he didn’t remember entering - was, by far, the least traumatic yet. 

Of course there was some confusion, especially when he poked his head out to see the man he’d met the previous evening stirring inside a sleeping bag on the ground. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and blinked as he put him into focus. 

“Oh, here’s the Archangel. How are you feeling?’

“My head aches-- wait, what--??” Gabriel panicked inwardly, blood turning into ice. How could that mortal _know_ \- wasn’t he mortal? Had he been fooled by a demon, or an angel, or--

Daniel threw back his head and laughed. “Hah! So you don’t remember? You got so drunk last night, you kept muttering nonsense about being the Archangel Gabriel.”

… Oh. _Oh._

“Ah. Yes. I… don’t remember that,” Gabriel muttered, finally crawling out of the tend and standing upright. His back was sore, too; he stretched, getting a faint _pop_ out of his spine. It didn’t feel too bad.

“I had never seen anybody get _that_ shitfaced with half a bottle of beer,” Daniel was muttering, wriggling out of the sleeping bag. Gabriel had a feeling he was supposed to be offended, but he frowned at something else. His gaze went from the sleeping bag on the grass to the tent, and then back to Daniel. Had he-- left the tent to him?

“You didn’t have to sleep outside on my account,” he said, embarrassed. The man shrugged and stretched. The crack coming from his spine was much louder. 

“Ah, not a problem. It’s still mild this time of the year, I don’t mind sleeping outside from time to time. Will be different in a few weeks, but by then you’ll hopefully be back on your feet.”

“... You, too.”

“Heh. My situation is pretty complicated.”

“So is mine.”

A sigh. “Ah, well. Nothing will be solved if we stand here and mope. Let’s head out - there is a McDonald’s nearby. Nice staff, a toilet, cheap breakfast, and wifi for job hunting.”

Oh, Gabriel thought, of course. Jobs. Human’s livelihood almost entirely depended on their ability to produce something of value; of course he’d be expected to have a job. 

_Well, I did lose my job, didn’t I?_

“... Of course. So, you-- said you lost your job?”

“Ah, that was a link in the chain that got me here. First my health, then my job, then my wife, then my home,” Daniel said, and scratched his cheek. “Still luckier than a friend of mine was. ‘Fit for work’, they said, because he could walk unaided for fifty feet or something. Benefits cut. He went under a train the next month, wheelchair and all. Turns out he _wasn’t_ fit for work.” A sigh. “Would like to think he’s in a better place. My wife, too.”

 _I could make enquiries,_ Gabriel almost said, but he did not. It would require getting in touch with Heaven, and he… he couldn’t do that; the thought alone made his stomach clench. Another idea entered his mind - he could try asking Beelzebub, if they could be found, whether they were in Hell. Certainly, if not there, they’d be in Heaven. Still, he didn’t want to do that either.

Gabriel could think of no nice way to tell a mortal that his loved ones are in Hell.

* * *

Michael was rather certain paperwork was the closest to a taste of Hell you could get in Heaven.

Of course she wasn’t entirely new to it; a certain amount of paperwork would always be part of life, be it mortal or… well, not. Heaven didn’t run itself, after all. As its population grew with mortal souls who had gained themselves entry - only angels dwelled on the upper floors, of course, and aside for a few rather extraordinary souls getting a promotion their number had stayed more or less steady at ten million since the Schism - Gabriel had taken it upon himself to organize things in a rational manner, to hand out tasks and ensure they were carried out. 

“Heaven won’t run itself,” was precisely what he’d said, and God had approved of his ideas - or at least, they had never sent Metatron to say otherwise, which counted as approval. It had to, didn’t it? It was the most logical way to ensure they followed the Great Plan and got to the final war organized and prepared. If God were displeased, they would make it very clear. So their silence, stretching out for millennia, _had_ to mean they approved.

Everyone had done their share, including herself, Sandalphon and Uriel - Gabriel’s closest aides. None of them below him, but all of them more than willing to leave most of the bureaucracy to him; it was his element, after all, and he’d enjoyed the task in ways they never would have. But now he was gone, and they had to pick up where he’d left off.

And to be completely honest, Sandalphon’s expression spelled out, it absolutely _sucked._

“There is… a lot more backlog than I thought there would be.”

“Well, we were expecting the world to end,” Uriel reasoned, going through some notes that had piled up on Gabriel’s desk. A perfectly white and perfectly pristine computer took over the other half of it, everything in it filed away meticulously, but Gabriel had clearly never gotten the time to go through that pile. There was the army to rally, after all, the entire order of existence to change, which would make that work rather useless in the even of either victory or defeat.

Nothing had changed, and yet _everything_ had. No war had come but oh, did Michael feel they had been defeated, in some way she couldn’t quite grasp. Not the whole of the Heavenly forces, of course, but them personally. They had lost a valuable asset, after all. A _friend_ who had been stripped of his angelic nature and now wanted nothing to do with them for something they had not chosen or _wanted._ And at the moment, it felt they had lost their sense of purpose as well. 

For so long they’d prepared for a day that did not come; now they had no instructions. They should have paid more attention on the observation files; no one really really looked at them until Michael had realized something about Aziraphale was off. Gabriel hadn’t thought of it either, but why would he? Who’d have ever thought an angel would turn against the Great Plan - and turn out, in some ineffable way, to be the one in the right?

Had it truly been part of the Ineffable plan, or was it a failure from their part? Surely, if it was part of the Ineffable plan, they had been _meant_ to fail. It should have made the sense of failure burn a bit less, but it did not. It seemed unfair. And with what had befallen Gabriel… it seemed _cruel._

 _God doesn’t play games with the universe,_ Gabriel used to say. 

_Ah, but did God play games with us? Is this what we get for serving the Almighty?_

Michael shook her head, trying to get rid of that thought, and looked up… only to see that same thought mirrored in the faces of Uriel and Sandalphon, plain as day. Wondering. _Questioning._

“Let’s get to work. When-- if Gabriel returns, he should find everything in order,” Michael said.

No one really believed that might happen, but there was that tiny sliver of hope to cling to. 

Against all odds they had been wrong before, after all. 

* * *

“... Is something wrong?”

“Hmm?”

“I get a feeling I’m being stared at,” Gabriel muttered, glancing around as discreetly as possible. There were a few glances towards their table, which he couldn’t make any sense of. He was eating like everybody else in there, in hopes it wouldn’t make him sick again. 

Daniel shrugged, eyes still fixed on the screen of his phone, scrolling down what Gabriel assumed was a job listing. He had a half-eaten egg and bacon sandwich in his other hand. “Ah, they’re looking at me. I do get looks like that.”

“Why?”

“Homeless guy sitting at a table. I always get some looks. They’re probably wondering why I’m here with a smartphone in my hand. People act funny when homeless folks have phones. I wonder how else they think we can apply for jobs.”

“What’s wrong with having a phone?”

“Ah, nothing. But it ruins the idea they have of poor folks dressed in rags, holding up an empty bowl and going Oliver Twist at them. _Please, sir, may I have some more?_ ”

Gabriel frowned in confusion, and glanced down at his own sandwich, still untouched as he ate the hash brown. “... You want my sandwich?”

“Wha-- no, no, it was the quote. Oliver Twist?” he tried. Gabriel blinked, mind drawing a blank. 

“... Ah, nevermind. By the way, there is an app you need to get. It tells you if any places are giving away free samples of food in your area. Bakeries do that a lot.

“Oh.”

“Also, there is a gym open all day and all night not far from here. Invest some money in a membership card.”

“Huh? Why?” Gabriel asked, confused. Not that he did not see the point of physical exercise, but why pay when jogging is free?

Daniel grinned. “Showers accessible all the time, and a locker to keep any valuables you _really_ are not safe having with you in the streets. Plus, it’s someplace warm to be if it gets really cold.”

“I see.”

“You really want to keep yourself as clean as possible, to keep looking the way you do now. You don’t seem homeless. I would have never guessed when we met.”

Gabriel glanced down at himself. He was still wearing the track suit, but the coat he had on was rather nice and, while he had some stubble on his cheeks, it was a far cry from the untamed beard on Daniel’s face. That was probably going to change, he thought; his body hair would grow, too. He mentally added ‘shaving’ to the growing list of human skills he’d need to master.

“That’s a good thing, by the way,” Daniel was saying through a mouthful. “It’s easier if you look like someone with an office job and someplace to be at night. I know I should try to look less like the part, but ah, it gets so tiring after a time.” One last bite of his sandwich, and he stood. “I’m getting another coffee. Want more? My treat.”

Gabriel shook his head. He may not know exactly how much the money he had left in the wallet was worth, but he could tell he had more than Daniel; making him pay for his coffee did not sit well with him. Plus, he probably should moderate in his intake of food and liquids. 

“No. No, I’m good,” he said. As Daniel went to get more of that oddly bitter beverage, Gabriel went on to start his sandwich, and took out his phone.

* * *

Aziraphale almost missed the call. 

In his defense, the phone decided to ring _just_ as he was preparing a good cup of tea for himself as well as black coffee for Crowley, who’d then add sugar while hoping Aziraphale would not notice that he did not, in fact, ‘like his coffee black and bitter like the deepest pits of Hell’. Not a problem, that: he’d pretended not to notice for four centuries, he could keep up the act. 

Or at least he would have, but he’d dropped both mugs as he rushed to answer the phone, leaving Crowley to miracle the pieces back together. He snatched the receiver up mid-ring. 

“Hello? This is--”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel’s voice rang out. Oh, thank God, there he was, safe and sound. Or, well, at least alive. He didn’t sound like he’d been hit by another car, at least.

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief. “Where are you?”

“Why the Heaven did you run off like that, you arsehole?” Crowley called out from the back. 

If Gabriel heard him, he entirely ignored him. “I’ve met- there are people sleeping in the streets.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Yes,” he said. “Homelessness is a terrible problem in London.”

“I thought that was sorted out in… I don’t know. Industrial revolution?”

Ah, he really knew little to nothing about the world. “It was never quite sorted.”

“You could sort that out,” Gabriel pointed out, an accusing note to his voice that made Aziraphale frown again. Did he really think he could find homes for everybody who needed one with a snap of his fingers? Did he really think it would be that easy?

“There are _limits_ to what we can do to help humans. We can’t just take charge of their fates.”

“Why not? We know better,” Gabriel said, like he hadn’t been about to let the entire world burn without thinking twice about it so that he could have his war.

“... I’ll pretend I haven’t heard that. I help when I can, if I do happen to meet--”

“It’s not enough!”

“Oh, if only _someone_ hadn’t reprimanded me _several times_ for _frivolous miracles_ whenever I did helped too many people! What have _you_ ever done?”

Aziraphale sort of regretted saying that a few moments after the words left his mouth, but also sort of… not. He was trying to help, and Gabriel wasn’t making it easy. There was a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line, and he expected protests, but there was only silence. He took a long breath himself. “Tell me where you are, and--”

_Click._

Ah. Of course. Of-bloody- _course._

“... I suppose this is the wrong moment to remind you we could have teleported ourselves to him through the phone line instead of politely asking where he is,” Crowley muttered, raising an eyebrow. Aziraphale groaned, and tried to call back, to no avail. 

“He turned off the phone. Again.”

“Well, we did our best. Here’s your mug, like new.”

“Crowley.”

“What? We don’t know where to find him anyway. He made it through the night and wasn’t dragged to Hell, so not a bad going. Let him figure out a few things by himself, and let's talk about important stuff.”

Aziraphale found himself smiling. “South Downs?” he asked, and Crowley grinned back. 

“Yes. South Downs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them?"  
> James 2:14


	9. Proverbs 10:7 - Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think an archangel would know better than making deals with the literal Prince of Hell, but nah, not this one.

“Dagon.”

“My Lord.”

“Are all available demons out looking for the Archangel?”

“They are.”

“... You’re still here.”

“You required my presence.”

“Did I?” Beelzebub buzzed, frowning at the flames dancing at their fingertips. A few flies flew into it, and came out burning; the flames then were extinguished, and they kept flying as though nothing had happened. They didn’t notice Dagon frowning. 

“If you’ll forgive my insolence--”

“I don’t forgive and you’re always insolent anyway,” Beelzebub closed their hands in a fist, and the fire was gone. They leaned back on their seat, glancing over at Dagon. “Speak.”

“You seem distracted, Lord Beelzebub.”

Of course, Beelzebub could deny that; claim they were not  _ distracted _ at all, and Dagon would immediately accept that Blind obedience. Absolute loyalty. The demand they rebelled against a long, long time ago, now upheld once again. Hypocritical, perhaps, but Beelzebub found they didn’t mind it when  _ they _ were the one who could not be questioned. But they did not deny it. 

“Do you remember anything from before the Fall?” they asked.

Dagon blinked in surprise, but hardly paused before replying. “I remember the Fall. We all do.”

“But  _ before _ that?”

“... Hardly anything. I remember the battle.” A pause, and Dagon’s hand reached up to her head. There it was for her, too, the pain whenever an attempt was made to bring up the past. Beelzebub wondered, for the first time, if angels got that as well whenever they tried to remember. “You got in the way,” Dagon said slowly. “When Michael came to strike me down.”

Beelzebub vaguely remembered that, too, though they weren’t entirely sure they had truly meant to shield Dagon from the assault or to attack Michael the moment they’d seen her. Either way, it had been useless; Michael was a force to be reckoned with. Beelzebub had waited so long for a rematch, now that they were stronger, but even that had been denied to them.

“She struck down both of us,” Beelzebub muttered, the ache in their head spiking a moment. They ignored it and frowned, trying to recall more. They had been among the last to be cast out, the last bit of resistance before the Fall. But towards the start of the rebellion, in the heat of the battle, there had been a spear raised above them, like Michael’s sword later… yet it hadn’t come down. And Beelzebub… hadn’t moved, either.

_ “Gabriel, what are you waiting for? Strike them down!” _

_ “Ba’al! Strike now!” _

“Ugh--!” Beelzebub let out a groan, the pain in their head spiking into something nearly unbearable and oh, did they know  _ something _ of unbearable torments. They shook their head, giving up on trying to remember, and the pain faded. They looked up to see Dagon still standing there, a pained grimace on her own face, and scoffed.

“... Enough reminiscing. Go, and don’t be back until the Archangel is found,” they snapped, like it had been Dagon to bring up a distant past. She obeyed, unquestioning, unflinching, leaving them alone. 

The Prince of Hell watched her leave and leaned back on their throne, silent, in wait.

* * *

“Here we are. They got sales going on, too. Lucky you, when I came in to get my stuff it cost an arm and a leg.”

Gabriel, who had absolutely no clue as to the monetary value of human appendages and still didn’t know precisely how much the money in his wallet was worth, let alone what he could buy with it, just nodded.

“Right,” he muttered, and made a point to look carefully, right and then left, before they crossed the street to the store. One car to the face had been enough to last him the entirety of a mortal lifetime, thank you. 

“You go in and have a look,” Daniel said, tilting his head towards the store. “A good sleeping bag is a must. Say it’s for camping.”

“Right.” Gabriel hesitated, not entirely sure what he was supposed to look for. What made a sleeping bag  _ good _ or not? He could use some advice there. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Can’t go in with the fag,” Daniel replied, nodding towards the window. A tall, lanky man was rearranging the display. Gabriel frowned. 

“You shouldn’t call him that,” he pointed out. He knew little about Earth and its conventions, but even he had picked up that much. Daniel, on the other hand, gave him a slightly confused look. 

“What?”

Gabriel’s certainty wavered a moment. “Isn’t it-- derogatory?”

Another moment of silence, then Daniel laughed. “Hah! No, I didn’t-- can’t go in with the fag lit. I mean this,” he added, lifting up the cigarette and raising an eyebrow. “You’re not from around here originally, are you? I wondered, with your accent.”

Oh. “I... yes, I’m from. Abroad.”

“American?”

“... Sort of,” Gabriel muttered, and cleared his throat. “So, uh, I’ll have a look,” he added, and walked into the store. He returned a clerk’s greeting with a polite smile - the greetings were nowhere as effusive as those of his taylor back during the Regency, he mused - and walked right to the back, where the sleeping bags were on display. 

He walked up and down the aisle, staring at the prices without a clue as to how much money it actually was, and eventually walked back towards the entrance, hoping that Daniel was done with the cigarette and could at least suggest him what to pick. 

He had not finished the cigarette, and he was no longer alone on the pavement in front of the shop. Three boys were standing only a few steps away, laughing, eating chips and muttering something Gabriel couldn’t hear. 

And at first, he thought nothing of it. Then something was thrown at Daniel, bouncing off his jumper and onto the pavement; they roared with laughter, and the picture became much clearer.

It had been a long time since Gabriel had felt Righteous Anger. Even when Aziraphale had  _ somehow _ screwed up the Armageddon, what he’d felt had been… yes, anger, but mixed with utter bafflement that they’d been betrayed in such a way by the Angel of the Eastern Gate and no small amount of embarrassment for never having noticed, over six millennia, that he was closely working with a demon.

He’d wanted him gone for his betrayal, he’d wanted him punished for the millennia wasted on a Plan that was not to be and for the blow to his pride--   
_ a crime born of pride _   
\-- but it hadn’t quite been Righteous Anger, the kind that filled his chest with the power of the storm and turned his voice to into the crack of thunder. He’d almost forgotten what  _ that _ felt like. 

But right now, with no power at all to speak of, he got a rather good reminder. 

_ “Cease at once!”  _

No crack of thunder to underline his words, but there may very well have been. The clerk nearly jumped on the counter as he strode past him and outside, a client who’d wandered in nearly jumped in the arms of a mannequin displaying trekking gear, and the three boys on the pavement stumbled as though physically hit by a gust of wind.

Ah, that was… nice. Satisfying. An angel’s voice had a power to it, and that power was lost to him… but maybe not all of it. His voice rang still loud and clear, and it was time to make it heard. 

* * *

“Have the new entries been dealt with?”

“Yes. One bright side is that we were expecting… a  _ lot _ of people to die last week. Which is to say, all of them. So we’re more than prepared for a regular influx.”

“Good.”

There was a brief silence, shuffling papers. In the end, it was Sandalphon to break the silence. 

“... Do you think he’s going to show up here, eventually?”

Uriel blinked. “Who?” she asked, and then paused at the look Sandalphon gave her. “Ah-- Gabriel,” she muttered, frowning a little. Of course he meant Gabriel, who else? She must be… taking on too much work, and let her mind wander. Never mind that angels are supposed to simply never tire. “If God will allow back, you mean? It has… never happened, that a Fallen was allowed to return.”

“But he’s not  _ technically _ a Fallen,” Sandalphon replied. “As long as the other side doesn’t get him. Which… won’t happen. I think. I hope.”

Uriel sighed. “Michael said he’s safe as he can be.”

“On Earth, under the eye of the trait--” he trailed off, and paused. An unwise thing to call the angel that Hellfire couldn’t think and who seemed to have a special place in the eyes of God, that, and he corrected himself quickly enough. “... Of an angel and a demon who somehow derailed the Apocalypse.”

“Better than in Hell’s clutches, I suppose.” Uriel sighed, then spoke again. “He might return after his mortal life runs it course,” she conceded, barely daring to hope so. It would be the best outcome, she supposed, even if he would no longer be among them as an archangel. 

“Ah, right. That’s not too long. How many years do you think his mortal form may have left?”

“Well… maybe ten, twenty years?” Uriel guessed, not having precisely kept up to date with the average lifespan of humans in the specific geographic location Gabriel happened to be at the moment. Last time she had truly mixed up with anything going on on Earth it was to check doors for lamb’s blood in Egypt. Interesting times, those. Interesting lives. Short lives.

“That’s not long,” Sandalphon muttered. He sounded relieved; clearly, the thought Hell might sink its claws in Gabriel didn’t even occur to him. Uriel chose not to consider it, either. “Not long at all. Human lives are so short, he’ll be back in the blink of an eye.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“And he’ll have let go of what happened by then, surely,” Sandalphon went on. “He must understand that we didn’t truly have a choice except, well…”

“Rebel,” Uriel said quietly. “And Fall.”

The mere mention of it seeed to make him uncomfortable, and he busied himself straightening papers that needed no straightening. “Well, of course, we couldn’t do that.” A small, nervous laugh. “Rules are there for a reason. I mean, Gabriel used to say… he used to say…”

Sandalphon’s voice faded; Uriel waited for him to continue, but he didn’t and suddenly she knew  _ why.  _ She looked up, dread gripping her throat, to see that same dread on Sandalphon’s face.

“Uriel,” he whispered, eyes wide. “I can’t  _ remember _ what Gabriel used to say.”

* * *

“It was impressive, how you dealt with those kids.”

“Hmm.”

“No, really. You almost scared me, with that voice you made. The wrath of Hell.”

Wrong comparison, and it made something in Gabriel’s chest clench. Beelzebub’s claims that he belonged in Hell echoed in his mind, and he had to make an effort to silence the thought. He wondered, faintly, what Beelzebub was at. Maybe they were looking for him - not a reassuring through, that the forces of Hell may be patrolling the streets for him - but maybe they had just decided he was not worth the effort, after all. Somehow, the thought stung.

“Gabriel? You all right, mate?”

“Ah-- yes. Yes, I’m all right. It’s just… I’d prefer to think of it as the wrath of Heaven.”

“Heh, of course. The Archangel Fucking Gabriel,” Daniel chuckled, then paused. “... Press the ice over your eye another minute.”

Gabriel made a face, pressing the ice bag a little harder over his right eye. His vision was a little blurred and he couldn’t open it completely, but it was only a black eye - the pain nowhere comparable to the utter agony of torn wings, or of multiple fractures after being hit by a car. It certainly would heal soon enough. Sooner than his pride, at any rate. 

_ A crime born of pride,  _ Metatron’s voice echoed in the back of his mind. 

“Oh, shut up,” Gabriel muttered. 

“What was that?”

“... Nothing.” He sighed, leaning back against the backrest of the bench. On a branch little above him a gray squirrel eyed him, likely trying to decide whether the ice pack on his face might be edible and, if so, whether it was worth the risk of trying to steal. They were awfully bold, the squirrels of St. James’ Park. “So much for the wrath of Heaven. That was pathetic.”

“It was three on one.”

“Three children.”

“Teenagers. And they gave you no time to react.”

“I used to be--” ah, but he couldn’t finish that sentence, could he? This time, Daniel wouldn’t shrug it off as the ramblings of a drunken man; he may very well decide he was crazy. “... Stronger than this.”

“Well, you’re always on time to hit the gym,” Daniel chuckled, then fell silent for a few moments. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, almost somber. “Thank you.”

Gabriel glanced at him, taken aback. “What for?”

“For trying to do something,” Daniel muttered. His voice grew weaker a moment, and he cleared his throat. “A lot of people… wouldn’t,” he added, staring at the ducks currently glaring at them for having the audacity to sit there without bringing a snack for them as well. 

Ah, Gabriel thought. That. He’d been so taken by his humiliation, he had almost forgotten why he’d gone and confronted those youths like that. He shrugged, and managed a smile. “Someone had to do something,” he said. 

_ Oh, if only someone hadn’t reprimanded me several times for frivolous miracles whenever I did helped too many people! What have you ever done? _

… Honestly, having other people’s voices echoing in the back of his head was getting rather tiring, and Aziraphale’s voice was the worst of all, bringing back that tightness in the pit of his stomach that he had yet to properly identify as  _ guilt. _ And yet, maybe… yes, maybe Aziraphale was the one he should speak to. 

He could offer no real help to anyone, but Aziraphale could, so it was about time he swallowed his pride and--

_ A crime born of pride. _

_ Can you please just shut. The fuck. Up? _

“All right, are you sure you don’t have a concussion or something?” Daniel was asking, waving a hand in front of Gabriel’s good eye, most annoyingly. “I can still call an ambulance.”

Gabriel shook his head and stood, reaching into his pocket. “I’m fine,” he said, and walked a few steps away, to get some privacy. “I only need to make a call.”

“Ah. Sure. I just-- that meant a lot to me, even if you got a black eye.” A pause, then he laughed a little. “Especially because you went and got a black eye on my behalf.”

Gabriel tried to smile. It came out more of a grimace. “You helped me out first,” he pointed out. And without angelic influences, he almost added, but kept it to himself. Now that he thought about it, it was rather puzzling. Daniel had showed kindness without any sort of heavenly intervention, like it was his nature. 

Gabriel had never thought much about human nature; he’d always thought of mortals as slightly more intelligent apes sort of standing there, waiting for an input from either Heaven or Hell. And there he was now, a human himself, trying to make decisions without any sort of help from  _ either _ side. Maybe, he mused, he should have taken that spiel about  _ free will _ more seriously.

“You’re probably the kindest hum-- person I ever met,” Gabriel added. He wasn’t sure what reaction he expected - maybe an embarrassed laugh - but his expression just… soured.

“I’ve had my arsehole moments,” he muttered. For a moment he looked like he may be about to elaborate on that, but he did not. He just shrugged, and fished a cigarette out of his pocket - his attempt at offering Gabriel one earlier had ended with a violent coughing fit and some gagging - before leaning back. “I’ll have a fa-- a cigarette while you make your call.”

Gabriel nodded, and moved a few more steps towards the pond before taking the phone out of his pocket. As he called Aziraphale’s number and brought the phone to his ear, he failed to notice a fellow staring at him, standing by a nearby tree. 

Upon closer inspection, someone might have picked up something wrong about him - nothing major, but just enough small details and curious features to make it unnerving. Just enough to see he wasn’t human as much as something trying to pass as one and doing a job at it that was just barely decent, the features oddly undefined. But he didn’t look, and he did not notice a thing.

It would later occur to him that maybe, just maybe, St. James’ Park hadn’t been the best choice of location to come and rest.

* * *

“What the-- fuck-- there is a giant snake here! What the hell!”

“Sir, there is no need to curse--” Aziraphale began, but didn’t even get to see the customer as much as he saw a blur of movement, which was out of the door and out in the street the next moment. He blinked at the door a few moments, mug in hand - then, as it closed, he sighed.

“Crowley. Was scaring the daylights out of that poor man strictly necessary?”

A hiss, and a large snake slithered across the floor before turning back into the familiar human shape Aziraphale had come to know so well. He leaned against a bookshelf and shrugged. “You already wanted him out to close the shop.”

“I was about to come up with something. Now he’ll go to the authorities, someone will come to investigate the sighting of the Serpent of Eden in a bookshop in Soho, and I’ll have to do an awful lot of--”

“Naaaah, you won’t,” Crowley cut him off, and snapped his fingers. “There. He forgot. Now he has a sudden urge to visit the reptile house at the zoo and will head straight there.”

A sight of relief. “Oh, thank you. I mean-- that’s nice of you, but--”

“He looked awfully interested in the tomes of the Comedy.”

“... The ones with Gustave Doré illustrations?”

“Yep. First edition. I think he was rather serious about wanting to buy them.”

“Oh, in that case… well, thank you, dear,” Aziraphale conceded, smiling a little sheepishly. He was quite fond of those books, and perhaps he should move them to the back, better hidden from prying eyes. Except that the back of the shop was already full of  _ other _ books he was quite fond of and unwilling to part with. The  _ entire _ shop consisted almost solely of books he was fond of and unwilling to part with, really. 

A bookshop had seemed a wonderful cover for him to collect books and pretend to be a normal working citizen who paid his taxes - he actually  _ did _ pay taxes - but back when he’d decided to open it, he’d failed to take into account the fact people may be inclined to purchase his books. 

“You’re welcome. I was thinking, there is this new French-style cellar with wine and cheese--”

The phone rang before he could finish, causing him to roll his eyes, the glasses off his face and in his pocket. Aziraphale gave him an apologetic look, and picked up the receiver to answer in a cheery voice. “Hello! I am afraid we’re closed, but--”

“Aziraphale? It’s me.”

“Oh. Gabriel.” The smile on Aziraphale’s lips faded, and he glanced over at Crowley, who gestured towards the receiver. Ah, right - that was their idea, wasn’t it? “We’re coming, hold the phone off your ear--”

“No, don’t. There are people there. You’d be seen.”

Oh, of course. Aziraphale sighed. “Please, don’t put down the phone. Where are you?”

“That’s… not important. Listen, there is someone I need you to help.”

“... Someone you need me to help?”

“His name is Daniel Brown. He’s homeless - lost his home, he says, and his job, and his wife died. Maybe that’s not the order it happened, but -- can you send a small miracle his way?”

Well, now that was a... surprising request coming from Gabriel, but not the unpleasant kind. Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley, who was listening to his half of the conversation with a confused frown, and nodded.

“Come back in the shop,” he finally said, holding back a remark about  _ frivolous miracles. _ “And I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

As he ended the call, Gabriel couldn’t help but notice that the knot in his guts had tightened quite a lot when Aziraphale accepted to help him. That didn’t precisely make him any more eager to see him in person, but if he was to get Daniel a much-needed miracle, he had to do it. 

He just needed a convincing story to tell about his black eye, because Heaven knew he had no desire to let the demon Crowley know he had been struck down by  _ children.  _ He, who during the War… during the War… well, he’d needed Michael and Uriel to help him out of a few sticky situations, but he’d defeated a few rebels on his own right, except… he’d frozen up at one point, hadn’t he? He couldn’t really remember clearly, but there was something--

“I didn’t freeze you as well, did I?” Beelzebub’s voice rang out suddenly, almost causing him to jump right in the water, which would probably have made waterfowl angry. He turned suddenly, opening his mouth to demand how they’d found him, but words died in his throat the next moment. Beelzebub was sitting on the backrest of the bench, and Daniel… he was just staring ahead, eyes glassy and jaw slack. 

“What-- what have you  _ done--  _ release him!”

Beelzebub raised an eyebrow. “No need to worry, I simply… paused him, while we talk. I suspect you don’t wish this mortal to know the truth about-- wait. What  _ happened _ to your eye?”

_ Don’t tell them it was kids. Don’t tell them it was kids. Don’t tell them it was kids. _

“It was-- teenagers,” he blurted out, only to mentally kick himself the next moment. “I mean-- a car. Teenagers driving a car.”

An unimpressed look. “You were hit by a car? Again?”

“Uh…” Bit too late to change version now. “Yes?”

Another long look that told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was an idiot - but they didn’t realize he was lying so really, who was the idiot there, huh? Gabriel might have smirked, if not for the fact it could give away his little act. And also, angering the Prince of Hell while they could destroy the only human…  _ acquaintance _ he had made so far might turn out not to be such a wise move. So, he did not and let Beelzebub speak first. 

“It seems you are determined to shorten your stay on Earth as much as possible, for all your fear to join me in Hell.”

“No, no. It was… and accident,” Gabriel protested, but Beelzebub went on as though he hadn’t even spoken. 

“You can end this charade any moment,” they said, holding out a hand. “Join me. You’ll have wings again, and power.”

For a single, terrifying moment, Gabriel was almost tempted to accept; anything to cease being so pathetically  _ weak _ . But the thought of Hell still aroused too much horror in him, and he shook his head, taking a step back. “Never! I shall never--”

_ Splash. _

Ah, right. The pond. Gabriel sighed, and sadly glanced down at his now wet shoes. An especially brave duck swam over to peck at his shoelaces. 

_ “Pffft--” _

The sudden sound of someone trying and failing not to burst out laughing - and not the kind of Dignified Evil Chortle of the upper spheres of Hell, not to be confused with the Dignified Benign Chortle they did upstairs. More like a full-bellied laugh, and for  _ some _ reason, Gabriel felt he knew how it would sound if it was allowed out - like it was something he had heard before.

But it wasn’t to be: laughter never came. When Gabriel looked up, Beelzebub was straightening up. They weren’t quite fast enough to entirely hide how their lips had curled upwards.

“Did you just--”

_ “Silence,”  _ Beelzebub snapped, proving he’d just hit a nerve. Gabriel raised an eyebrow. 

“I could  _ swear _ you were about to burst--” he began, but then Beelzebub raised a hand, Daniel’s glassy eyes turned  _ white _ as though suddenly full of swirling fog, and Gabriel shut his mouth so abruptly his teeth clacked together. He swallowed. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t harm him.”

A roll of their eyes. “What a difference less than two days as a human make. Were we not prepared to end every human life in order to get our rematch?”

“That was… then,” Gabriel muttered, markedly uncomfortable. He didn’t quite know how to explain that _every human life_ was… a very vague, abstract concept.  _ This _ human life, however… “Don’t do… whatever you plan on doing. Please.”

Beelzebub stared at him for a few moments, their expressions unreadable, then it turned sly. They smirked. “Are you ready to offer up your soul for his life?”

“I-- what?”

“I let him go without harming him. You follow me in Hell. We can strike the deal now,” they said, and hopped down the bench, holding out a hand. Gabriel looked at it, at a loss for a few moments… then he laughed. Beelzebub didn’t look pleased with that. 

“You can’t.” He grinned, giddy with triumph, entirely forgetting his own sensible idea  _ not _ to anger the Prince of Hell while they literally held Daniel’s life in their hands. “If I give up my soul to  _ save  _ someone, that’s  _ sacrifice.  _ And it gets me right back to Heaven.”

Beelzebub seethed a moment, then their fury faded into a faint smile. “Oh, that is true. I forgot. Thanks for keeping me from handing you a ticket back to Heaven,” they said. Gabriel’s smile went out like a burned-out lightbulb. 

_ Ah. Fuck.  _

A chuckle - the Dignified Evil Chuckle, this time. “Since you’re so clever, I’ll make another proposition. I spare his life, and you let me mark you. So you can  _ never  _ hide from me again.”

_ Absolutely not, _ Gabriel though, and was about to say it… until he glanced at Daniel again, at the fog swirling in his eyes. A large, lumbering man, but so very frail before the Prince of Hell. His mortal life could be snuffed out with a snap of Beelzebub’s fingers, and  _ he _ was the one thing that stood in the way of that happening. 

Gabriel didn’t  _ have  _ to save him, but then again neither did Daniel  _ have _ to help him out, but he had. And honestly, chances were that Beelzebub would be able to find him wherever he hid, anyway. The mark would change nothing. His wings had been torn out; what was one more scar? 

“If I accept, you will never harm him.”

“You have my word.” A pause. “... You know I  _ always  _ keep my word.”

That was true, if anything; Gabriel knew from experience that Beelzebub was many things - Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, for starters - but not one to take back their word. 

“... All right,” he heard himself saying. Beelzebub seemed surprised for only a moment before they gestured with their left hand, causing Daniel to yawn and immediately slump back asleep. Gabriel breathed out a sigh of relief, and held out his arm.

The grip around his wrist burned so hot that, for a moment, it felt cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The memory of the righteous is a blessing, but the name of the wicked will rot."  
> \-- Proverbs 10:7


	10. Revelation 9:1 - Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in getting this chapter done, I caught a cold and needed to rest but I MADE IT, take that cold.

“This isn’t right. It can’t be right.”

“It’s… what happened after the Fall, none of us remembers--”

_ “He did not Fall!” _

Michael’s voice bounced across the room and outside it, bouncing between white walls, causing an angel passing by on a hoverboard to fly off it, and not the kind of flight that required wings. He landed on his backside, blinking in confusion as the armfuls of paperwork he’d been carrying fluttered on the floor around him. 

Entirely unaware of it - not that she’d have fallen over herself to apologize if she knew - Michael spoke again, her voice still forceful. “We forgot the Fallen because their memory is meant to rot away. But Gabriel is not Fallen. He doesn’t belong in Hell.”

“We are aware,” Uriel spoke up, her voice firm and gaze unwavering. Michael had made quite a name for herself as God’s prime warrior, and many angels quivered in the rare instances when she rose her voice; but Uriel was her match, had always been her match, and never did. “But we  _ are _ forgetting things about him.”

That was true, of course. When Urial and Sandalphon had come to her, Michael had just realized herself that something was wrong. Sitting at her desk, she’d suddenly realized that she couldn’t remember exactly what Gabriel had said about reorganizing office space just a week before the botched Armageddon; that she couldn’t remember his expression, if he’d laughed or… or… what had his laugh sounded like, exactly? What had his  _ voice  _ sounded like?

_ She wasn’t sure. _

She’d taken a notepad and begun writing frantically all the details she could think of -  _ Archangel Gabriel, the Messenger, the Christmas angel, stood by God’s left hand remember him remember him remember him _ \- just as Uriel and Sandalphon arrived, about to tell her what she had just realized herself. 

They were beginning to forget him. Soon, if things went as they did with the Fallen, they wouldn’t know there had even  _ been _ an Archangel Gabrial among them. 

“Maybe Beelzebub got him after all,” Sandalphon suggested. There were a few moments of silence, grim gazes being exchanged. 

“... Aziraphale said he would be safe,” Michael finally said. 

Uriel gave her a long look. “Can we trust his word? After all that happened?”

“What happened shows quite clearly that he has God’s protection--”

“But can we  _ trust _ him?”

Michael fell silent, and so did Sandalphon. Neither of them replied to that question; there was no point. They didn’t know whether or not he  _ could _ be trusted, but either way it changed nothing. They did  _ not  _ trust Aziraphale, and in order to be sure Gabriel was truly safe from the Prince of Hell - to find out  _ why _ they were forgetting about him already, like they would for one of the Fallen - there was only one thing to do.

They needed to find him.

* * *

“Amazing. You’re unsupervised for less than a day, and you get yourself beaten up like a kid at the playground.”

“I’ll have you know it was six on one.  _ Large _ human specimens. And I held my own.”

“Oh, come on. I’ll bet all you  _ held _ was an ice pack to your eye.”

Ah, that had hit a nerve, Aziraphale could tell; it reminded him of the look on Gabriel’s face when he had first suggested that perhaps, in trying at all costs to follow the Great Plan, he may be going against the Ineffable one. This time, instead of gawking in disbelief, Gabriel glared down at the mug Aziraphale had put in his hands, saying nothing. 

A mug that was still entirely full, come to think of it. 

“Drink your cocoa while it’s hot.”

Gabriel wrinkled his nose. “I am not sure this is--”

“That was not a suggestion,” Aziraphale cut him off with a bright smile. If he could guzzle down whatever  _ rubbish _ Beelzebub themselves suggested without complaining, then he may as well shut up and drink the finest cocoa money could buy. 

Gabriel blinked, clearly still utterly confused by the concept of being ordered anything by Aziraphale. He glanced over at Crowley, who shrugged.

“I’d do as he says if I were you,” he muttered. Aziraphale smiled. 

“I know you would.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Luckily, rather than protesting, Gabriel seemed to get the hint and brought the mug of coca to his lips quite quickly. Good, he was learning. Aziraphale took a sip from his own mug, then set it down. 

“This human you mentioned. It does sound as though he needs some help. Where is he now?”

“In St. James’ Park. He was-- tired, so he went to sleep. But I have his number,” he added quickly. “In case he’s no longer there.”

Aziraphale frowned, and glanced outside. It was a reasonably sunny day, but rain was forecast for the next, and for several as well. Soon autumn would come, and then winter, and the time a nap in the park could be pleasant would be over. “I see.”

“He got sick, something about losing his job. He said his wife died-- there were benefit cuts?” Gabriel spoke the last part slowly, like he understood what both those words meant separately but not together. Sadly, Aziraphale knew all too well what they meant. It happened… often.

“Ah, he truly could use a little miracle. Do you know what his job was?”

“He drove... “ Gabriel put down the mug and held up his hands, as though holding a wheel. “You know, those…”

“Cars?” Crowley suggested, and he shook his head. 

“Bigger.”

“A bus?” Aziraphale tried.

“No, smaller…”

“An ambulance?”

“Less noisy.”

“Truck?” Aziraphale said, and Gabriel suddenly brightened up. 

“Ha-ah! Yes! A delivery truck!” he exclaimed, smiling broadly. “And before that he worked in a warehouse. He knows how to operate the… the… wait, it’s on the tip of my tongue...”

“Pornogaphy!” Crowley exclaimed. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but did not attempt to cut him off.

“Yes! The porn-- no, wait-- no, not that,” Gabriel stammered, and turned to look Aziraphale. “You  _ told him _ that?”

Aziraphale smiled at him without the slightest smidge of guilt.

“I told him that,” he confirmed. “Is the word you’re looking for  _ machinery, _ by any chance?”

Gabriel still seemed rather displeased - Crowley’s wide grin was not helping matters - but in the end he stopped protesting and nodded. “Yes, the machinery.”

“I see. And his name is Daniel Brown.”

“Yes.”

“So if, by chance, a warehouse manager in need to staff just so happened to come across his curriculum specifically, would that be of help?”

Gabriel immediately nodded, a relieved smile on his face. It was… odd, watching him so invested in the fate of a mortal. Aziraphale doubted Gabriel had ever really been invested in anything but the Great Plan, and ensuring all ran smoothly and according to it. That… hadn’t turned out too well.

“Well, then you can consider it done,” Aziraphale said lightly, and took another sip from his mug before tilting his head towards Crowley. “Would you be so kind?” he asked, causing Gabriel to blink like he’d just witnessed him asking… well, for a demon to perform a heavenly miracle.

“What…? I thought-- I came here for  _ your _ help, he can’t--”

“My hands are busy,” Aziraphale pointed out, lifting the mug.

“I do what I want, Gabe,” Crowley muttered, then raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “Only because it’s  _ you _ asking, angel,” he added, and lifted his hand, snapping his fingers. “There. Daniel Brown is going to wake up to an email offering him a job interview, and he’ll be found to be a perfect fit. You’re welcome.”

Gabriel stared. He blinked. He stared some more.

“... I said,  _ you’re welcome.  _ If you can’t be polite and say ‘thank you’, can you at least stop gawking?”

Gabriel opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. It reminded Aziraphale of a fish out of water. “What kind of demon  _ are _ you?” he finally asked, and Crowley grinned.

“One of a kind, Gabe. One of a kind.”

Not a lie, that. Aziraphale smiled into his mug, took another sip, and finally put it down. “I believe it is common courtesy to thank someone who just did you a favor,” he pointed out. Gabriel glanced at him and for a moment he looked like he wanted to protest, but in the end he glanced back at Crowley. It was curious, Aziraphale noted, how he could hold Crowley’s gaze but not his own. Maybe the glasses helped, but he suspected the real reason why Gabriel would scarcely look at him the eye was another, although it still eluded him.

“You have my thanks,” Gabriel mumbled. Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

“Can you say that louder? I didn’t hear it very clearly.”

As Gabriel’s face flushed, whether in anger or embarrassment it was hard to tell, Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley,” he said, nudging his foot with his own, and Crowley shrugged.

“Fine, fine. I heard you the first time,” he conceded. “You’re welcome. I guess. So, what’s the plan now?”

“... Plan?” 

“What are  _ you _ going to do now?”

Gabriel looked between the two of them, quite obviously lost. “I-- don’t know.”

Aziraphale nodded. “One thing at a time. For now, I think it would be best if you stayed here. Just to make sure no one from downstairs finds you.”

Gabriel’s eyes shifted slowly towards Crowley. Aziraphale sighed. 

“Except him, clearly,” he muttered, somewhat offended at the notion Gabriel hadn’t realized yet that Crowley was the exception to  _ everything, _ as far as he was concerned. In his annoyance, he didn’t notice the way Gabriel’s right hand closed around his left wrist. 

“I can’t stay here,” he muttered and, again, he wouldn’t look at Aziraphale. This time, Crowley noticed as well and leaned in, sliding the glasses down his nose. 

“... Waaaaaait a moment. I can smell something,” he muttered, and sniffed the air, causing Gabriel to still and stare at him like a hare caught in the headlights. He held his left arm to his chest, stammering. 

“I-I… I had no choice--”

“Shush,” Crowley shushed him with a gesture of his hand, and inhaled deeply, almost sprawled over the table between them. Aziraphale mentally thanked God, or whoever there was to thank, that Crowley had opted to sniff the air the human way as opposed to flickering his tongue in the air as a snake would. Gabriel seemed freaked out enough as things were - even more so when Crowley finally pulled back and gave his verdict. 

“Guilt,” he told Aziraphale, sounding mildly surprised. “He reeks of  _ guilt,  _ angel.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Guilt?” he repeated, and looked at Gabriel… only for him to immediately avoid his gaze and look down, like a chastised schoolboy.

He was about to ask over  _ what, _ but Crowley got there first. “Good thing he didn’t  _ shut his stupid mouth and die already, _ after all,” he muttered, leaning his chin on the palm of his hand, elbow propped on the table. “And good thing he’s more of a  _ good guy _ than you could ever hope to be.”

Oh, Aziraphale thought, too stunned to think much else.  _ Oh.  _ Was that why he couldn’t look at him in the eye? He felt  _ guilty  _ for trying to destroy him?

“By the way, you  _ are _ aware that he would have  _ questioned _ the order to cut off your wings, right? Unlike your friends up there, he wouldn’t have just done it.”

That was… probably true, truth be told. Aziraphale had been ready to shoot down a child when he believed the fate of the world depended on it, but as a desperate last resort; the idea of forcing someone down to cut off parts of his body made him feel quite ill. Or at least, the closest to ill a celestial being could feel. “Crowley, I believe that is quite enough,” he said, quietly, putting a hand on Crowey’s own arm. He fell quiet, at last, but Gabriel was standing. 

“I… I really ought to go,” he muttered quickly, gaze fixed on the floor. “Thank you for your help.”

“Gabriel. I’d prefer if you stayed. It’s safer--”

_ “Nowhere is safe!”  _ Gabriel snapped, an edge of hysteria to his voice. Aziraphale stood as well, holding up his hands. 

“I believe  _ here _ is safer than most places. I will not force you, but I ask you reconsider--”

Gabriel’s knees folded, and he collapsed on the floor like a sack of potatoes, only one arm in the coat’s sleeve. Out cold. Aziraphale blinked down at him, then lowered his hands and sighed.

“I had  _ just  _ finished saying I wasn’t going to force him to stay.”

“And you didn’t. I just decided he needed a nap,” Crowley replied, and stood, stretching his back. “Let’s get him on the sofa. Maybe he’ll be more reasonable once he wakes up.”

Aziraphale nodded, and went to lift Gabriel up from beneath his arms as Crowley took his legs. “Thanks. I know you’d rather not have him around at all,” he said.

“Ah, I can handle one archangel. It gets bothersome when it’s more than one, or--”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence. There was a booming noise, like the crack of thunder, and the shop’s doors were blown open. To Aziraphale’s utter annoyance, several pages of a manuscript he was  _ just _ in the process of painstakingly repairing were blown off his work desk and across the shop; the only reason why he didn’t immediately leap to recover them was the fact it would have meant dropping Gabriel quite painfully on his head.

“The shop is clos--” he began, only to trail off when he realized it wasn’t potential clients who had walked in. Unless Michael, Uriel and Sandalphon had developed a sudden urge to learn about humanity’s finest literature, which Aziraphale rather doubted. He  _ might  _ be pleasantly surprised yet, but he wouldn’t bet money on it. 

Still holding onto Gabriel’s legs, Crowley groaned. “Wankers,” he muttered under his breath. Aziraphale bit his lower lip to keep himself from laughing, and glanced back at the three archangels who were staring at him, at Crowley, and at Gabriel’s unconscious body in obvious confusion, and with no small amount of concern. He managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile before uttering the only line he could possibly utter given the circumstances.

“... This is not what it looks like.”

* * *

As it turned out, the human was just as uninteresting as he looked.

After letting Gabriel go - why not? They could find him whenever they wished, now - Beelzebub had turned their attention on the sleeping mortal the former archangel had been so desperate to save. They had no reason to hurt him now that they got what they wanted, but did could take a look at his past sins and ah, there were… a few. 

None of them especially impressive, but one or two in particular were… worse than others. Maybe not quite enough to put him in Hell at his death, but if a few more just so happened to tilt the scale… then he might be theirs yet. Maybe they could tempt him into sin, just as practice before they finally turned their attention of Gabriel and  _ really _ began to win him to their side. 

Except that they couldn’t, not after striking that deal with Gabriel.  _ If I accept,  _ he had said,  _ you will never harm him.  _ That ‘never’ hadn’t been uttered at random, of course; Gabriel was too well-versed when it came to small print. For their deal to remain valid, and for the Mark to remain on his skin, he was to  _ never  _ harm that mortal - and dooming his soul  _ would _ qualify as harming him. Would getting someone else to do it be enough to get around it? Perhaps, but it wasn’t worth the risk. It was one soul like billions of others, like one star lost among galaxies.

… They hadn’t thought of the stars in a long time. You hardly see any stars in the depths of Hell, after all, but there had been a time when they had been among them -  _ making  _ them, a whole bunch of angels working to create entire systems, nebulas, galaxies, without knowing why. 

_ “Why are we doing this again?” _

_ “Because God told us to.” _

_ “Duh. But why is God asking us to build all of this?” _

_ “Must be part of the Great Plan.” _

_ “Would be nice to be told what it is for once.” _

_ “Don’t be absurd, Ba’al. It’s not for us to know.” _

“Ugh--” that spike of pain in their head, again. Beelzebub made a face, rubbing their head, and walked out of the park with quick steps, pushing the memory in the back of their mind and leaving the vague memory of an angel standing beside them, shoulder to shoulder, nameless.

* * *

_ Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel. This is him. This is his name. I must not forget him. _

Even as she repeated it like a mantra in her mind, Michael knew perfectly well it would change little. If it was God’s will for them to forget him like they had forgotten the Fallen, then they would forget him. 

But ah, they didn’t  _ want  _ to. 

“... Of course we didn’t let Beelzebub take him! He’s not Fallen for sure, as you can see,” Aziraphale was saying somewhere on her left. She glanced over to see him walking back and forth, his pet demon watched Uriel and Sandalphon as though he suspected they would try to jump them any moment. “I don’t know if his memory is meant to fade from Heaven, this is unprecedented.  _ I _ certainly am not forgetting who he is…”

“You can survive Hellfire,” Uriel pointed out, her voice dry. “I suspect our rules no longer quite apply to you.”

“Ah, that-- ahem-- right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, as though he’d somehow forgotten than less than neglectable detail. “Well, I am afraid I have no answers for you, then. I am at a loss as well. But I can guarantee he is safe here. Michael, please, take care not to wake him up. He didn’t last see you in the best of circumstances.”

_ It hurt it hurts it hurts please stop it stop it please– Michael, please! _

“... I am aware,” Michael said, her voice flat, and waited until he turned his attention back to Sandalphon - he was asking something Michael did not quite catch - to glance back down at Gabriel as he lay on the sofa.

He was asleep, something that of course she had never witnessed as angels do not sleep. It was somewhat eerie, but his forehead was smooth and is expression calm; she supposed it was the most she could hope for at the moment. As much as she wanted to wake him up and explain that she had never  _ wanted _ to do what she’d done to him, what she had to do, she knew better. He would panic, the way he had when he’d seen Sandalphon, and she… didn’t want that.

With a quick glance to make sure Uriel and Sandalphon had the full attention of both Aziraphale and the demon, Michael reached down to grasp Gabriel’s right wrist. That was all it took; a brief creasing of his brow, and then he was back to whatever dreams filled the mind of a mortal. A mark from Heaven is never painful, unless bestowed on the damned, and it was reassuring to see it had caused no sting to Gabriel. 

No, Hell hadn’t managed to claim him just yet… and now she would be able to find him wherever he went, as long as she managed not to entirely forget him. It might happen eventually, but they could make an effort not to just  _ yet, _ at least until they knew he’d be safe. 

_ Please. Just a little longer. _

Entirely unaware of the mark already… well,  _ marking _ his left wrist, Michael let go of Gabriel and walked up to the table. Aziraphale had made tea for everyone; thoughtful of him, Michael supposed, even if no one was drinking any. He  _ truly  _ had gone native. 

“Of course we forgot you right back,” the demon Crowley was saying. “We don’t remember much of anything about our time in Heaven. What, did you think you were the only ones who can go all ‘you’re cancelled!’ at someone?”

Sandalphon and Uriel exchanged a glance. “... I don’t think quite got that last part,” he said. 

“Er-- never mind,” Aziraphale said quickly. “What he means is, yes. The Fallen forgot about their time as angels, too. And… well, about us, if we did happen to know each other before the Fall.”

Uriel frowned. “Is it possible that Gabriel is going to forget us as well?”

It was a question Michael hadn’t considered, and it felt like a blow. She looked at Aziraphale, hoping he’d answer negatively, but instead he frowned and rubbed his chin. “I… wouldn’t know. He hasn’t mentioned you today, but that doesn’t mean--”

“One way to find out,” the demon cut him off, and snapped his fingers. At the end of the room, there was a groan. 

“Nnnnh…”

Three Archangels, one Principality and a demon whose rank in Hell Michael frankly did not care to know all turned to look at Gabriel sat up on the sofa, rubbed his eyes, looked up, blinked at them a few moments… and  _ screamed.  _

_ “NO! No no no no no--” _

Another snap of the demon’s fingers, and the scream died in his throat; his gaze became unfocused, his eyes slipped shut and he fell back down on the sofa, once again deeply asleep. 

“Well,” Crowley said, his voice impossibly cheerful. “I’d say he remembers you  _ perfectly _ .”

* * *

_ “Why are we doing this again?” _

_ “Because God told us to.” _

_ “Duh. But why is God asking us to build all of this?” _

_ “Must be part of the Great Plan.” _

_ “Would be nice to be told what it is for once.” _

_ “Don’t be absurd, Ba’al. It’s not for us to know.” _

_ “Hmph.” A pause, a long look into the infinite. “... I guess they’re nice to look at.” _

_ “Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “They are.” _

_ But he wasn’t looking at the stars. _

* * *

“Nhhh…”

“Oh look. He’s waking up.”

When Gabriel opened his eyes with a groan, the first thing he saw was the grinning face of the demon Crowley. It was enough to make the distant memory of  _ another _ face, one that had stayed in the back of his mind for a very long time, fade again just out of reach. 

“Ugh,” he groaned, and sat up, rubbing his head. For some reason, it hurt. “What-- what am I doing here? What happened?”

“You decided to stop for a nap.”

“I highly doubt that,” Gabriel muttered, and stood. From the other end of the room, Aziraphale looked at him over a book. 

“It truly would be best if you stayed here. It is safer,” he said. Gabriel blinked at him. 

“What are those?”

“Glasses.”

“... You’re an angel. You don’t need glasses.”

“I think they make me look spiffy. Will you at least consider staying for the night?”

It would make no difference whatsoever, not with Beelzebub having marked him, but Gabriel found he didn’t want to admit as much; he didn’t need the mockery over the fact he should have known better than making, quite literally, a deal with the devil. 

“I’ll consider it,” he finally muttered, because he found he didn’t really want to ask him  _ why _ he wanted so badly to help him either. Whether the gnawing sensation in his chest was truly guilt as the demon had suggested, he’d rather not start a conversation that was all too likely to make it worse. 

Luckily, the sudden ringing sound of his mobile phone spared him further conversation. He took the call without even looking; Aziraphale aside, there was only one other being who had that number. 

“Gabriel! You’re not going to believe this!”

Daniel sounded a decade or two younger than he was, excitement obvious in his voice. It made Gabriel smile faintly. 

“Surprise me.”

“I got a call for a job interview! Warehouse in Southampton. They need a forklift operator, and they’ll provide accommodation. I still have a good star above my head after all!”

Gabriel’s smile widened. “That’s amazing news,” he said, and it truly was. It had been… a while since any news had pleased him so. “When’s the interview?”

“Tomorrow! That was… a bit sudden. I could really use a good haircut and a shave and Hell knows where I can find decent clothes--”

“I can pay for those,” Gabriel cut him off. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure the money he had would be enough, but he’d worry about that later. “Let’s meet… are you still in St. James’ Park? I’ll get there. No, no, I insist - you can return the favor later if you must. Meet you there.”

When he ended the call and looked up, he was greeted by two pairs of raised eyebrows. He cleared his throat. 

“I, er… the miracle worked.”

Crowley scoffed. “What’s with the surprise? Of course it did.”

“Well-- thanks. I have to go,” Gabriel muttered, turning to grab his coat. When he turned, both Aziraphale and Crowley had their own coats on despite not having moved at all. He blinked. Aziraphale smiled. 

“It’s  _ such _ a lovely day outside,” he said, just as a gust of wind sent the first splash of raindrops of the afternoon against the window behind him. “We figured some fresh air would do us good.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Well, he was good enough to fool you for a long time,” Crowley muttered. “Which... actually no, it doesn’t say much. You  _ are _ a terrible liar, angel.”

“I didn’t  _ lie _ as much as I omitted information,” Aziraphale protested, then looked back at Gabriel. “... Just for your safety. We’ll follow from a distance,” he promised, and went to the door. “You won’t even  _ know _ we’re there.”

* * *

“Don’t look back, but there’s a couple of weirdos following us.”

Daniel's mumble made Gabriel almost,  _ almost  _ reach up to dramatically smack his forehead. Instead, he grabbed Daniel’s shoulder and pulled him inside a store. It seemed rather upscale, if not quite up there with the perfection of old-fashioned tailored suits. 

“I’m sure it’s your imagination. Let’s find you a suit,” he muttered, failing to notice - again - the fly that buzzed in the store right after him as Crowley and Aziraphale stopped to loiter on the pavement, about as inconspicuous as a pair of dolphins in a goldfish bowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Then the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star from heaven which had fallen to the earth; and the key of the bottomless pit was given to him."  
> \-- Revelation 9:1


	11. Corinthians 4:9 - Forsaken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel has some questions for God. Gabriel cannot take a hint.  
> (Updating slightly earlier than usual because I'm moving to a new flat and this means no reliable Internet.)

Gabriel waited for Aziraphale and his demon to be gone before he began looking for the Circle. 

Prior to leaving him alone in the bookstore for the evening - something about a new winery having opened - Aziraphale had plenty of recommendations for him, in order for him to remain safe through the night. He was not to open the doors under any circumstances; under no circumstances, in the extremely unlikely case someone got in, was he to sell any books. Or let anybody take any books. Which included him: he was Not Allowed to touch the books, either. 

The vast majority of recommendations had been about the safety of the books rather than his own, really. Obviously, nearly all of them had been entirely useless; firstly because Beelzebub had gotten in without any need to open doors, their arrival announced by a sudden burning around Gabriel’s left wrist, and secondly because the Lord of the Flies clearly did not give a single, flying fuck about the well-being of the books. Or the entire bookstore.

“You could set this place on fire.”

“Why would I do that?”

Sitting on top of a table, the Prince of Hell shrugged. “Don’t know. Revenge? Because the traitor deserves to be punished?”

“I tried to get him punished, and look where it got me.”

“Because it would be amusing?”

Peering at the wall behind an armchair - still no Circle, but it had to be there, that was how Aziraphale kept in touch - Gabriel grunted. “It absolutely would not be amusing,” he said. He was no fan of the decor, too dark and old and dusty, nothing like the minimalism he enjoyed in Heaven, but didn’t quite hate it enough to do something that pointless.

“Aren’t you tempted?”

“No. Is this _seriously_ your idea of tempting me into your side? Sitting there and telling me to set things on fire?”

Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “It worked with Nero.”

“It did not,” Gabriel muttered, crouching down to check under a desk. Still nothing; maybe it was upstairs, or in the back. He should check there. “Our investigation concluded that the fire was entirely accidental, and that Emperor Nero was a victim of adverse PR. Hell had no hand in it.”

“Well, him blaming Christians afterwards was _our_ doing,” Beelzebub pointed out, receiving absolutely no reply as Gabriel kept looking for the Circle. They growled. “Don’t you _dare_ ignore me.”

Gabriel ignored them. Beelzebub pushed the pile of books next to them on the floor. The books landed with a thud, finally causing Gabriel to look back at them. He sighed.

“... Really?”

Beelzebub said nothing. They just made eye contact, unblinking, and began pushing another book towards the edge. 

“Don’t you dare--”

_Thud._

“You can’t stop me, mortal.”

Gabriel gave a long, weary sigh, and went to pick up the books. “You could set the place on fire yourself, but you won’t. Maybe you _are_ scared of them,” he muttered, and turned to put the books down someplace else so he could resume looking for the Circle.

Only to be sent tumbling forward by a sudden kick on the small of his back.

_THUD._

_“Ouch!”_

“Angering me is not a wise idea,” Beelzebub spoke behind him. Biting back a retort - surely the Prince of Hell he could do _worse_ that a kick in the arse, and goading them struck Gabriel as a rather Bad Idea - he picked up the books again and stood. 

“You know, the more time I spend in your company the less I am inclined to accept your--” he began, then trailed off. He had stumbled over a rug as he fell, dragging it, and in doing so he’d uncovered something drawn in chalk on the wooden boards. 

The Circle. He’d found it.

There was a long, somewhat buzzing sigh as Gabriel cast the books aside and pulled the rest of the rug off, struggling to pull it free from beneath the weight of an armchair. 

“You know this isn’t going to work, right?”

“It will. It must.”

“You are a _mortal._ You can light all the candles you want, chant whatever you want, dance naked around it all you want--”

“That’s _really_ not how the ritual--”

“-- But without any powers on your end, it will remain a random circle drawn on floorboards.”

Gabriel shook his head, refusing to acknowledge what Beelzebub was saying. No, no, it had to work. _Something_ had to happen. He had no wish to face again the ones who had mutilated him - _his old friends,_ an insidious voice whispering in the back of his mind, far more hurtful than anything Beelzebub had said so far - but he had to know why he’d been cast out like that. 

Why had he been the only one to be punished? What was he supposed to do now? Was there a plan for him to follow? There had to be. He couldn’t even begin to think that God may have forsaken him entirely. He’d been happy to see Daniel so happy over the opportunity of getting back on his feet, but as they parted ways it made him wonder if _his_ chance to go back to normal would ever come.

He had to know, and the only way to know was to ask God directly. Or Metatron, whoever would listen to his call. As long as someone would listen, and give him an answer.

_I have failed you. I accept my punishment. Please, tell me how I can put it right._

“You’re being willfully ignorant.” The annoyance in their voice was turning into something closer to anger. “And to think the one thing I appreciated of you was practicality.”

“I need to know--”

“You’re grasping for straws, hoping you will be given a second chance. You won’t. No one gets second chances, but you want to think you’re so _special,_ don’t you?”

Something about those words struck Gabriel, causing him to still, the seven candles he’d found in a drawer in his hands. “I…” he began, but he could think of nothing to retort. 

_You want to think you’re so special._

_A crime born of pride._

“God has forsaken you,” Beelzebub spoke again. Their voice was flat, somehow distant; not quite bitter, but not too far away from it either. “Just accept it. It gets easier once you accept it.”

Gabriel ground his teeth. “If God has forsaken me, then-- then they may as well _tell me_ as much,” he snapped, and turned back to the circle, placing the candles in the correct places… or at least what he assumed to be the correct places. He had never used one of those things. 

Beelzebub watched him with renewed interest. “You think God _owes_ you an explanation now?”

Of course, the thought alone was blasphemy. Not too long ago, Gabriel would have been horrified to realize such a thing had left his lips. Now he was… he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he was tired, lost as a compass without a North, and if there was still a plan for him, then… then he needed to know what it was. He needed a word, a sign, anything.

_Why am I here? Why have I not Fallen? What do I have to do to feel Your grace again?_

“I need answers,” Gabriel finally said, and began to light the candles. “You may want to hide.”

“Oh, so you won’t be seen with me? Good try, but I don’t have to do anywhere. Nothing will happen,” Beelzebub said, but Gabriel ignored them. He blew off the match, and joined his hands without getting up from his knees. 

If nothing happened, or worse yet if God spoke to condemn him, at least he would be already on the ground and be spared the indignity of collapsing. 

“This is… the former… Archangel Gabriel,” he managed to say, the word _former_ almost getting stuck in his throat. He shut his eyes tightly swallowed painfully. “I need-- I _beg--_ to speak to… to a higher authority.”

Nothing happened; no noise broke the silence but the muffled sound of rain outside. When Gabriel opened his eyes, there was… nothing. Only the circle, the burning candles, and no light but that of the chandelier overhead; no otherworldly voice, no _presence._ He may as well be talking to the wall. He was alone.

The light of the candles blurred, his eyes filling up with tears. A taunting word from Beelzebub might have undone him right there and then, but they said nothing; no ‘I told you so’, not one sound. Gabriel shut his eyes again, letting the tears run down his cheeks. Had he turned, he would have noticed that Beelzebub was no longer there and a fly buzzed near the ceiling; but he didn’t turn, nor he heard the approaching steps. He bowed his head, and spoke again. 

“Please. If someone is listening, anyone, I need-- I--”

_“What the Heaven do you think you’re doing??”_

“GAH!” Gabriel’s yelp was only partly due to surprise and mostly due to the fact that something had suddenly hit him, like a violent gust of hissing wind that was so, _so_ cold. White foam sprayed over him and then over the Circle, extinguishing the candles and hiding it from sight. “What--” Gabriel turned, trying to protest, only to get another spray of foam straight in the face. He fell back, sputtering, reaching up to wipe his eyes. When he finally managed to look up, he found himself staring at Crowley, fire extinguisher in hand. The demon… didn’t look pleased.

“You know, the reason why we didn’t tell you _not to set things on fire_ is that we didn’t think you’d be that stupid,” he hissed. Had he been less bewildered, Gabriel may have noticed he wasn’t just angry; he looked _haunted._ “Let me spell this out - _nothing_ burns in here again. Am I clear?”

“I-- you-- again…?” Gabriel sputtered, head reeling. Before he could come up with a reasonable response to a demon covering him in fire-extinguishing foam while he tried to get in contact with God - honestly, there weren’t any - Aziraphale stepped in the store, a paper bag in his hand.

“Found it! It was… behind the… passenger… seat.” His voice grew quieter with each word as his eyes took in everything - the demon with the fire extinguisher, Gabriel covered in foam on the floor where the Circle had been - and finally, slowly, he lowered the paper bag. He let out a very long, very tired sigh.

“... Maybe it’s best if I make some tea.”

* * *

“If you wanted to use the Circle, you only needed to ask. I can do that for you.”

Aziraphale had spoken kindly, but Gabriel seemed to shrink as though he’d just been threatened, grip tightening around his cup of tea. What Crowley had told him - _“he reeks of guilt”_ \- echoed in Aziraphale’s mind. 

Maybe he should address that, he mused; tell him what he was supposed to say - _“I forgive you”_ \- and leave it at that. Except that he knew _guilt_ was an insidious feeling, one Gabriel was not accustomed to deal with to boot. He suspected forgiveness might be met with even _more_ guilt… and that maybe, just maybe, it would make Aziraphale a liar. 

Despite the fact that _forgiveness_ was supposed one of the strongest points of the angelic brand following the Coming of Christ, maybe Aziraphale was not ready to forgive just yet. And, rather than lie, he chose to say nothing and offered his help instead. 

“I can use the Circle now. Ask on your behalf.”

Gabriel looked up from the cup, and was able to meet his gaze for a few moments before he lowered his eyes again. “That would be… much appreciated,” he murmured.

A nod. “Very well. Give me a few minutes to sort out the Circle, since _someone_ decided to overreact.”

Sprawled on the sofa, Crowley snorted. “This entire place went up in flames once already,” he muttered. “No need to do that again.”

“Well…” Aziraphale hesitated a moment, then he reached to put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “I was only temporarily discorporated, though not by fire. I found my way back.”

“I’d rather you don’t have to do that again.” Crowley grumbled, but Aziraphale could feel some tenseness leaving him. He squeezed his shoulder before he went to fix the Circle. New candles were needed but, overall, it was a quick job. Soon enough, he was ready to call upstairs, except for the fact that… well…

“It might be best for you not to be seen,” Aziraphale said, turning, but it looked like Crowley had come to the same conclusion a few moments earlier: he had barely the time to glimpse the last few inches of a black-and-red snake slithering beneath the sofa, out of sight. He smiled faintly, and glanced over at Gabriel. “Come. Stand close to me.”

Still, even as he approached, the former archangel seemed hesitant. “... Is it allowed?”

“Hmm?”

“Performing this in the presence of… of a mortal.” He forced out the last word. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. 

“I don’t recall a specific rule on the matter. Perhaps it is unconventional, but no more than it is for a mortal to try operating it,” he said, then smiled a little. “I don’t think I’ll get in trouble, if that worries you.”

Gabriel looked up, the frown fading a little, confirming to Aziraphale that it was, in fact, something that worried him. Quite extraordinary how he’d gone from trying to destroy him utterly to being concerned he might get in trouble on his behalf.

“I suppose you do get away with more than most,” Gabriel muttered, the faintest attempt at a smile curling his lips. Aziraphale chuckled. 

“Seems like I do,” he conceded. “In case they take umbrage with you being here, well… fear not. I’ll deal with everything,” he added, and turned to the Circle, joining his hands. “Now, stand back…”

It took a few moments, and some concentration, but the Circle did what it was meant to do. Within moments the store was bathed in light - Aziraphale faintly wondered if Crowley had the presence of mind of keeping the sunglasses on as a snake - and there was Metatron. 

“Er… good evening.” Aziraphale smiled, just a little nervously. Despite the fact that what had happened to Gabriel for trying to destroy him seemed to indicate that God didn’t mind what he’d done too much, he’d still-- oh dear, Gabriel. It had been Metatron to pronounce his sentence, spell out the order to cut off his wings and cast him out on God’s behalf. What if he reacted… badly at seeing him? 

He turned to glance at his right, and to his relief Gabriel wasn’t staggering back, nor he seemed about to start screaming as he had upon seeing Michael and the others. He was pale, granted, but he held his ground. 

“Principality Aziraphale,” Metatron spoke, voice reverberating across the room. “I don’t believe you are supposed to use the Circle in front of a mortal.”

Gabriel recoiled as though slapped. “I… certainly, given the… the circumstances, I am not just--”

“Had I shown myself in my full power, or had _God_ answered, you would be ashes now,” Metatron pointed out, and Aziraphale squirmed, feeling… just a _little_ foolish for not having thought of it. Right - there had been tales of mortals who had been destroyed or had their minds shattered by a heavenly being appearing before them, before they’d collectively learned to… kind of tone it down. Repeating 'fear not!' helps little when the mortal you're speaking to is a pile of ashes or lost their sanity. 

“Well--” he began, only to trail off when Metatron spoke again, still looking down at Gabriel. 

“Or is your pride such that you _still_ believe yourself to be above the Design?” he asked, causing the former archangel to seemingly shrink, lowering his gaze. Aziraphale could tell now that he was trembling in every limb, but forcing himself to keep his voice as steady as he could. 

“I… I only wanted to ask--”

“You _ask,_ after trying to claim for yourself powers that did not belong to you? Judgment that was not for you to pass?”

All right, maybe it would be best to never mention that Gabriel had actually tried to use the Circle on his own rather than _asking_ for help. “Please, don’t be so harsh,” Aziraphale spoke up for him. He reached up to put a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, entirely missing the surprised look that gained him. “He had little time to get used to his condition. He was an Archangel his entire existence, up to only a few days ago. He’s only seeking guidance.” 

A long, quiet look. “Seeking, or demanding?”

“Seeking. Mortals do that all the time,” Aziraphale added quickly. “To speak to you is to speak to God. If you would be so kind to listen…?”

A sigh, like autumn wind. “... I am listening.”

So far, so good. Aziraphale gave Gabriel what he hoped was an encouraging nod and stepped back, pushing him slightly forward in the same motion. Gabriel visibly swallowed, took a step forward… and fell on his knees. Well, all right: at least he hadn’t fainted as Aziraphale had feared for a moment. Aziraphale stepped back and watched and Gabriel bowed his head and joined his hands. Above him, Metatron’s expression remained unreadable. 

“I have failed God,” Gabriel choked out. “I have showed arrogance. I accept my punishment. I only-- _please._ What must I do to make it right?”

A long look. “Do you regret what you did, or do you only regret where it landed you?”

“I regret it. I do. I’m sorry, I thought-- the Great Plan-- everything we’d been working towards, I thought it was God’s will, I thought I was serving... the greater good…” Gabriel’s voice broke, and he lowered his head even more. He was no longer kneeling as much as he was slumping on the floor. “My pride was wounded. I let anger rule me. I wanted someone to pay.” His shoulders shook. “I’m _sorry_.”

Another silence, and a very long one. Aziraphale realized he was holding his breath - not that he needed to breathe, precisely, but it was a habit he’d grown accustomed to. He let it out slowly, and dared to speak. 

“He has my forgiveness,” he managed, not entirely sure how true it was and assuming that, even if found out, he could probably get away with lying to the Voice of God after getting away with stopping the Armageddon. Beneath the sofa, there was a slightly annoyed hiss. He elected to ignore it, hoping Metatron hadn’t heard it. “If I may ask-- what would it take for him to earn God’s?”

Metatron’s eyes flickered briefly towards him, then back on Gabriel. He seemed to lean forward, his face growing larger. “... Let him speak for himself, Principality Aziraphale. There is one more question he has yet to ask. His _real_ question. So out with it, mortal.”

The word - _mortal_ \- again seemed to hit Gabriel like a slap. He winced, but mustered the strength to look up, to keep his voice firm. Even so, there was so much underlying terror in what he said next that Aziraphale could hardly bear to listen. “... Has God forsaken me?”

Another long sigh. “Can you imagine how many mortals asked the same before?”

“I--”

“God forsakes no one. Others may choose to forsake God, but never the Almighty - however much the serpent under that sofa may disagree.”

Ah. Aziraphale smiled a little sheepishly, thinking that maybe they should have known that slithering under the couch would not be enough to hide from Metatron. But to be fair he was the Voice of God, not their _eyes,_ so they could assume--

As Crowley’s reptilian head poked out from beneath the sofa - trying to seem cool and actually quite sheepish, what an amazing range of emotions you can see on a serpent’s snout once you’ve gotten to know him well - Metatron turned his attention back to Gabriel.

“You are the Archangel Gabriel no longer. God asks of you what they ask of every mortal. Faith. Not in _them_ necessarily, but faith nonetheless. Go through your mortal life, have faith, and do your best.”

Gabriel swallowed. “... How will I know I’m doing the right things?” he asked, sounding so anguished. Snakes are not supposed to be able to roll their eyes, but Crowley noticeably rolled his anyway.

“You won’t,” Metatron was saying, less scathingly than Crowley would have. “That’s what faith is all about.”

“I-- I see,” Gabriel said, still sounding rather lost. He probably needed some more time to come to grasp the entire concept of ‘free will’ and ‘ineffability’. Until very recently, he had always had a plan and, at least in theory, clear orders to follow. And when he’d tried to take a decision of his own - namely, Aziraphale’s death sentence - he’d been punished quite harshly for it. Granted, by now he had probably grasped that burning people for was frowned upon, greater good or not.

“If… if I do everything right, at the end of this mortal life--”

“Do you presume you can demand your position back?”

“No, no! I just… even as a simple soul, in the lower spheres, if I may just-- return home.” 

There was longing in his voice, unmistakable. It made something in Aziraphale’s chest ache, and Crowley did not roll his eyes for once. When Metatron spoke again his voice was firm, but less imperious.

“Don’t wonder what’s in it for you, mortal,” he said. “That way of thinking taints your every choice, and leads to Hell and Hell alone.”

The mention of Hell made Gabriel shiver noticeably. He bowed his head, and grasped his left wrist; a gesture Aziraphale hardly noticed. “I don’t want to go to Hell.”

“Hardly any mortal does. It depends entirely on you. Will that be all?”

Gabriel dropped his shoulders and nodded, the very picture of defeat. Metatron glanced back at Crowley and Aziraphale. “Do you have any more questions?”

Crowley hissed.

“That was no question, and quite rude to boot. I’ll elect to ignore it. Principality Aziraphale?”

 _Why did God take my side?,_ Aziraphale almost asked, but decided against it. Best not to ask in front of Gabriel; he didn’t need another fistful of salt rubbed into the wound. So he just shook his head, and Metatron nodded. 

“Very well. Never again use the Circle in the presence of a mortal, specifically _this_ mortal, or a demon. Any demon.”

“Ah, I-- yes. Of course,” he nodded quickly, and breathed out a long sigh as the light faded and Metatron with it. While Crowley regained his human form - what _had_ he told Metatron? Did he really want an answer to that? - Aziraphale quietly stepped up to Gabriel. He was still on his knees, head hanging low. He held a hand out to him, to help him up, and tried to smile. 

“See, God didn’t forsake you after all. That’s… pretty good news.

Gabriel glanced at his hand, and then up at him. His gaze was empty. “Not yet,” he murmured. “But they will. I don’t know what to do with this mortal life. I don’t know what God wants of me.”

“Most people don’t,”Aziraphale admitted, then his smile grew a little surer. With the mind’s eye he saw Gabriel coming to him for a mortal’s sake, and then taking said mortal to buy anything he may need for the upcoming job interview they already knew he would pass. Had he received instructions to do any of it? No. Was there something in it for him? No. Had he done it anyway? Yes. 

“You know,” he said, offering his hand again. “I think you have figured out more than you think.”

Gabriel blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Ah, maybe it’s best if I don’t tell you. Sounds like you’re meant to be improvising.” After all, it would do no good at all if Gabriel began doing good deeds only for his own advantage, thus making them invalid. “But trust me, you’re not doing too bad at all.”

Gabriel stared, taken aback, then he took his hand and let him help him up. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand a lot of things,” Crowley muttered. “You may want to be more specific.”

“Not now,” Aziraphale warned, and Crowley fell silent. “Now, forget all about the circle. You ought to have some dinner.”

“But I had lunch already today.”

Well, fine. Improvising was good and all, but perhaps he could use with _a few_ more directions before he let him go his way, crossed his fingers, and hoped for the best.

* * *

Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, was angry at God.

That was nothing new: they had been harbouring never-ending grudge and fury at God for the best part of several eons, after all, ever since the Fall… and maybe some time before that, really, which was what had led to the Fall in the first place. Anger at God - and their Son, the Holy Spirit, the Angels and whatnot - was sort of a constant of existence; not being on friendly terms with the Almighty was a rather important requirement for the position of Prince of Hell. 

However, that anger was usually just background noise; always there, but not quite consuming their thoughts as it used to, causing gnashing of teeth and furious buzzing and no small amount of underlings burned to a crisp on a whim. Now it was back to the forefront of their mind, as they buzzed right beneath the ceiling of the book store where Gabriel had found refuge, trying to behave like any normal fly and thus not draw attention to themselves.

 _God forsakes no one,_ Metatron had said. 

As if. God was a complete lunatic who came up with rules upon rules to obey without any explanation as to _why,_ and rebelling was the most obvious thing to do against someone who believed they had the right to order them around for… what? Creating them? None of them had _asked_ to be created but there they were, glorified slaves to the whims of a Creator who would barely talk to them direction and stomped out any dissent.

Precious, precious humans could have their free will with a side dish of _forgiveness,_ but no such luxury was afforded to the Fallen. Not that Beelzebub would take it - they regretted _nothing_ and would remain in Hell until the end of times before they even contemplated returning to Heaven on God’s rotten terms - but it was the principle that irked them. Why should humanity get second chances? Why should Gabriel? Why should he be offered _hope?_

_Others may choose to forsake God, but never the Almighty._

Fine, Beelzebub thought, it was just fine with them. All they had to do was to get Gabriel to take that step and renounce God. It had been their plan from the beginning, after all. They only needed to keep at it, because what hope Gabriel had been given was faint, frail, as easy to snuff out as a candle. And maybe God had only give it to him to crush it later, anyway. 

Beelzebub made one more round across the room, observing the situation. The traitor Crowley and his unburnt angel were sitting by the window in the light of a small lamp; Crowley was sprawled on the chair listening to something through headphones, tapping his foot, while the angel was reading, pausing occasionally to take a sip of some hot beverage. They looked disgustingly domestic, but that was fine with Beelzebub as long as they didn’t spot them. 

They already counted themselves lucky that Metatron had managed to entirely miss their presence, but then again the demon Crowley had never been that good at going unnoticed.

Beelzebub flew to the far side of the room, which was only dimly lit. Gabriel was sleeping, the way mortals do, curled up on the sofa with a blanket over him. 

Beelzebub landed on the pillow with a faint buzz that was not a simple buzz at all: it kept going, low but continuous and meant for Gabriel’s ears only, seeping into his mind and dreams.

_“He lied, that’s all they do. Hypocrisy in every word. God has forsaken you. They will forget you. Maybe they already did. They have all forgotten you. Forget them, too. It is best. Just accept it.”_

Soon enough, Beelzebub wasn’t entirely sure who they were talking to - Gabriel, or themselves? - but it did not matter. Evil as their intentions may be, they were speaking the truth. 

_It gets easier once you accept it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.”  
> \-- Corinthians 4:9


	12. Mark 10:42-45 - Servant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is already longer than it was supposed to get and is nowhere near done. Go me.  
> Next chapter will have a bit of a time skip at the beginning.

“Did you just… print out everything?”

“Only the important things. The entirety of the file is in the archives for consultation - I don’t think it was fully digitalized - but this should do to help us remember.”

Uriel and Sandalphon exchanged a glance, then they both reached to take the folders Michael was handing to them, both of them full to bursting. And heavy, too. Uriel opened hers, and flipped through a few pages. Michael had written and printed out a short summary. A _relatively_ short summary, considering that Gabriel’s existence spanned eons and plenty of things had happened in that time. Plenty of memories that kept slipping through their fingers. 

“Remembering _facts_ about him is not the same thing as remembering him,” she muttered, and sighed. “How long before we can no longer recall _why_ didn’t want to forget him?”

Michael’s expression hardened. “Do you have a better idea?” she asked, her voice cold, causing Sandalphon to shift away a little. 

Michael and Uriel had… _disagreed_ very few times before, but Sandalphon had learned that, whenever it happened, it might just be safer to chill in an entirely different galaxy until they had worked things out. Last time, a few centuries earlier, he and Gabriel had hung about Orion’s Belt for a while, claiming they had been sent there on a mission while they had actually been sitting down for what would have been the longest game and most savage of Uno on record, had anyone ever recorded it. Sandalphon had won; a nice memory, that. And fading fast. 

Unaware of his thoughts, Uriel shook her head. “No,” she conceded. “No better ideas. Are you still going to get in touch? He… made it plain our presence unsettles him,” she added. A very polite way to put it, considering that seeing them made Gabriel scream and flail.

Michael sighed. “He won’t have to endure our presence,” she said. “Not unless he calls for us.”

* * *

“Gabriel! You finally answered! I sent you a text, did you see it?”

“Uuugh,” Gabriel muttered, rubbing his eyes. What time was it? How long had he slept? Were Aziraphale and his demon still-- ah, yes, there they were, sitting at the other hand of the room and staring at him, each with a raised eyebrow. Gabriel pulled himself upright, causing the blanket to fall off him on the floor. “A text? No, I didn’t. What-- when-- the interview! Did you get the job?” he asked.

“I did!” Daniel exclaimed, exactly as the demon scoffed. 

“I _told_ him he would, why the surprise...” he muttered, but Gabriel barely heard him: he just smiled, running a hand through his hair to brush it back. 

“That’s amazing news. When do you start--”

“They’re looking for a supervisor.”

“... Oh? I thought you were there for a position as a… spoon… lift?”

“What-- fork, Gabriel, a _forklift_ operator,” Daniel laughed, clearly elated. “Yes, I did. But they also need a supervisor or two and have just started looking. I thought-- you mentioned you were a supervisor once, no? Or a chief of staff, something like that?”

“I… you could say that, yes.”

“Then send them your CV, the link is in the text!”

“My-- oh. Of course. That. Yes. I’ll… do that.”

“Great! Good luck with that - they offer accommodation and all. Not that Southampton is that far, but better than commuting, no?”

“Absolutely,” Gabriel agreed, taking a mental note to look up what ‘commuting’ meant. After the call ended after a few more pleasantries, he looked up to see both the demon and Aziraphale were staring at him. 

“... What, are you _seriously_ going through with it?” Crowley asked. Gabriel frowned.

“Were you eavesdropping everything?”

“You had the speaker on, genius. Don’t dodge the question - am I really hearing the Archangel Fucking Gabriel thinking of getting a human job?”

_You are the Archangel Gabriel no longer,_ Metatron’s voice echoed in the back of his mind. It hurt, it truly did, but he saw the truth of it now. And, at least, he had some hope. 

_God forsakes no one,_ the Voice of God had said _._

_He lied,_ a voice he couldn’t place whispered in the back of his mind. _Hypocrisy in every word._

_God asks of you what they ask of every mortal. Faith._

_God has forsaken you._

_Go through your mortal life, have faith, and do your best._

_It gets easier once you accept it._

“I…” Gabriel’s voice faltered, and he swallowed before he spoke again. “I have little choice, do I? If I am to go through this life as a mortal, then… then I will do that. Besides, I can’t sit by doing nothing. I’m not wired for inaction,” he added, and turned back to them. Aziraphale was looking at him with calm understanding, and Gabriel smiled weakly.

_I think you have figured out more than you think,_ Aziraphale had said. Gabriel still had no idea what he meant, what was it he had supposedly figured out, but… he could try to believe him. He had been right about the Ineffable Plan, clearly, when everyone else had been wrong.

He wasn’t certain he could have faith in God now, but he could try to have some in an angel who could step into Hellfire, come out unscathed, and somehow find it in himself to offer his help and forgiveness without Gabriel doing anything to earn either.

“Well then,” Aziraphale finally said, “I suppose it is time to work on your CV.”

Oh. That. “... I never wrote a CV in my entire existence. I was created for my role.”

“Ah, it shouldn’t be too hard. You just lie.”

“Embellish, Crowley. You _embellish_ your--”

“You lie a lot. Everyone lies on their CV. And on the cover letter. And in interviews,” the demon replied, and shrugged when Gabriel glanced over. “So if you want to have more than a snowball’s chance in Hell - and trust me, I know what I’m talking about there - you’ve got to do it as well. Aside for the tiny little detail that no one would believe a word of your _real_ references, you really don’t want them to know your previous employment ended with a… well…”

“Forcible termination,” Gabriel finished. Crowley made a face.

“Was _that_ how you were going to put down Aziraphale’s-- ugh. Never mind. Do you even have a national insurance numb--”

“He does now,” Aziraphale said lightly, and turned back to Gabriel. “One more frivolous miracle to add to the list, I suppose. Do you mind?”

Like he had a say on the matter anymore. Gabriel averted his eyes. “... Thank you,” he murmured.

“You’re quite welcome. Do put down my number, in case they want to check your references. Now, I believe I might have a book somewhere explaining how to best write a CV…”

* * *

“You know this is ridiculously useless, don’t you? You don’t need to actually know that stuff.”

“I do need to know it if I am to do a decent job.”

“What do you care? That angel is such a bleeding heart, you know he’ll miracle you into passing the interview like he did for your human friend.”

“That was the demon, really.”

“... What?”

“The demon did the miracle.”

_“What.”_

“I thought the same thing,” Gabriel said, and turned a page. There were… a lot of things a warehouse supervisor was supposed to be knowledgeable about, including a lot about health and safety, which made sense given how fail mortal lives were. Luckily, Gabriel had an excellent memory; he was rather certain he could memorize all he needed to know before the interview.

Before him, Beelzebub was frowning. They had invited themselves to the table Gabriel was sitting at in the café, ordering a black coffee they had yet to touch. At the far end of the room, employees were discreetly trying to shoo away an unusual amount of flies that kept trying to land on the food on display. Which they would go on to sell anyway. 

“Demons are not supposed to perform miracles,” Beelzebub muttered, looking rather offended. 

“Demons are not supposed to splash around in holy water while asking for a rubber duck, either,” Gabriel pointed out, turning another page. “And yet.”

“Hmph.” Beelzebub made a face, and glared down at the coffee like it was responsible for the entire mess. “I should have asked for something more complicated to make,” they finally muttered. “To ruin the barista’s day a little.”

“You’re ruining mine, if it helps,” Gabriel said drily.

“It does,” was the reply, startlingly sincere. They leaned back, watching him closely as he tried to focus on the book, then suddenly kicked his shin under the table, causing Gabriel to yelp. 

“Ow! What was that abou--”

“I didn’t tell you you could ignore me.”

“You’re insufferable, and I have no more time for you. I have to learn all that there is to learn from this material obj-- book. From this book.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. When they spoke again, they sounded vaguely offended. "I still don't understand. You'd seriously lower yourself to this you consider my more than generous offer to join me in Hell?"

"Absolutely."

"You're an idiot," the Prince of Hell snapped, anger leaking into their voice. "God didn't explain a thing, didn't make any promises. Just demanded _faith,_ as usual. And you're still going to do as they say, after what was done to you!"

"Anything is preferable to Hell."

"You don't know until you try."

Gabriel lifted his eyes from the book. "And if I try and find I hate it, you'll just let me go?"

"Of course not."

Gabriel’s eyes shifted back to the book. "I'll pass."

"And it will be for nothing. God is going to change the rules on you, you'll see. Just so that they can screw you over a bit further."

Gabriel tried to keep his expression neutral, gaze fixed on the book like nothing of what he was hearing got under his skin, but he couldn't quite hide how those words cut. Beelzebub could certainly see it in the thin line of his mouth and the needlessly tight grip on the book, and immediately doubled down. 

"Isn't that what already happened? You did best, and suddenly the rules changed on you."

"I... acted out of arrogance--"

"Oh, please, spare me the self-blame God drilled in your brain. But that’s what you are - once a servant, _always_ a servant. God is prick. That's all that there is to say. A Great Plan to follow, and you did your utmost to see it through - then the one who got in the way has their protection, and you are thrown out for trying to deal with a _traitor_ the way deserve to be dealt with."

“I should have never attempted to destroy Aziraphale. It had nothing to do with the Great Plan. I only acted out of anger.”

“Maybe that was just God’s excuse. Maybe they planned on throwing you out for _failing_ to see the Great Plan through, after all. You were created to serve God, and failed.”

Gabriel finally looked up from the book, glaring. Beelzebub met his gaze, clearly satisfied for succeeding in getting a raise out of him. He forced himself to keep his voice even as he spoke. 

“God needs no _excuses_ to exert their will.”

“So, they need no _reason_ to tear out your wings and cast you out, is what you’re saying.”

“That’s not what I said,” Gabriel protested, desperately trying to shut down that part of his mind whispering that Beelzebub had a point. No, no, _no_ \- he couldn’t acknowledge that, couldn’t think like that. He needed to have _faith,_ it was all that was asked of him. “God’s ways are mysterious, and the fact that I can’t understand their reasons doesn’t mean there aren’t--”

“And yet you’re desperate to go back to being a lapdog for a master you won’t tell you what they want of you.”

“Faith, that is what they want--”

“And _this_ is where faith has brought you,” Beelzebub snorted, gesturing around them with a hand. The cafe was mostly empty; a girl at the far end seemed to have fallen asleep over her laptop. “You never doubted God, and here you are. Why remain loyal to a master like that? One who never even speaks to you? If you join me in hell--”

“Am I supposed to believe Satan wouldn’t destroy you in case of failure?” Gabriel snapped. 

Beelzebub looked at him like he was a complete idiot. “Of course he would, but then all you have to do is _not to fail._ Satan’s orders are always pretty damn clear, and they’re _upfront_ about what happens to you if you disobey. You follow the very clear orders, and you can’t go right.”

“You mean you can’t go wron--”

“No. I know exactly what I meant to mean.” Beelzebub waved a hand dismissively. “I challenged God, and I am the Prince of Hell. You did nothing but obey your entire existence, and you are _nothing._ Cast out without wings, without powers. I have both.”

The ragged scars over Gabriel’s shoulder blades seemed to burn, and he clenched his teeth, trying to ignore the phantom pain in a part of him that was no more. Good wings, strong wings, white as snow and strong as the tide. And they were gone.

“Maybe you were the one on the wrong side of the battlefield, after all,” Beelzebub mused, leaning forward and causing Gabriel to rear back. Yes, the battlefield. He remembered soaring over it, remembered the fight - the clash of swords and spears, scorching fire and holy water. 

He was never the warrior Michael was, but he could hold his own. He’d brought messages across the battlefield to keep the Heavenly army fighting as one, and he’d struck down several demons, he… he...

“You _lost_ the Battle,” Gabriel snapped. “I struck you down, and--”

Beelzebub scowled. “You did not!” they replied, sounding rather offended. “It was Michael, that wanker, but someday--”

“No, you were…” Gabriel frowned, trying to focus. Something was there, a memory beneath the vague recollection of the Battle; until then it had been impossible for him to remember much, the action too frantic and details slipping away from him the more he focused… but now he found it was easier to remember. And he remembered something, a moment of stillness in the chaos. 

_Gabriel, what are you waiting for? Strike them down!_

“I had a spear, and your sword was broken…” 

“All you had was that _stupid_ trumpet you always-- agh!”

_Ba’al! Strike now!_

Under Gabriel’s stunned gaze, Beelzebub let out a groan and grabbed their head with a pained grimace. With the mind’s eye he saw what had been an angel, a long time ago, exhausted and struggling to stand up before him… and then coming to a standstill.

He’d almost struck Beelzebub down, yes. But he did not. He could not.

And Beelzebub hadn’t struck him. They could have. They did not.

“... Ba’al.” The name came to his lips with no thought at all; at first he didn’t even realize it had been him to speak it. It caused Beelzebub to recoil and tear their hands off their head, glaring up at him with savage fury, pain, and something remarkably close to _fear._

“Stop,” they buzzed, wide-eyed, teeth bared. “Stop this _instant,_ I command you!”

“I _knew_ you. That was your name, wasn’t it, from before the Fa--”

_“We are not meant to remember things from before!”_ The buzzing grew louder, furious. “I demand you cease it now!”

They seemed to be-- they _were_ in physical pain. The realization made Gabriel’s mind reel; angels could not remember the Fallen either, because God clearly willed as much, but the futile attempts at doing so never caused pain. Clearly, Satan had put a demonic twist to the rule.

But Gabriel was an archangel no longer; he could remember, and he found he couldn’t keep himself from trying to bring up as much as he could. He’d never been curious about what they had forgotten about, but now… now he was. _Curiosity_ was, after all, a human trait. What had got Adam and Eve kicked out of Eden, but at the moment he was too overwhelmed to think of that.

The more he focused, the more he could recall; bits and pieces, far from a complete picture, but it was more than he’d ever managed to put together. And it seemed that he did, after all, have some sort of weapon he could use to chase away the Lord of the Flies.

“... I tried to warn you,” he said slowly, the memory so vague it may as well have been a dream. “You were hanging with the wrong people. Questioning too much. I tried to convince you--”

A snarl, and Beelzebub’s eyes flashed with flame before turning completely black. Above them, flies buzzed furiously against the ceiling. “You shut that stupid mouth this very instant, or else--!”

“Gabriel!”

As Daniel’s voice rang out, Gabriel went through two very different emotions: relief that the conversation had been interrupted before things got ugly - why did he think it a good idea to anger a being who could smother him with a gesture again? - and sudden terror that Beelzebub might turn their fury on him. And for a moment, their eyes all black, they looked like they might. 

“Please,” Gabriel whispered, his voice barely audible. 

_Don’t harm him. I let you Mark me so you wouldn’t harm him._

The change was so quick, Gabriel would have missed if he blinked. The blackness was gone from Beelzebub’s eyes, and they turned to look at Gabriel with a flat, utterly uninterested look. They looked fairly normal, aside for the fact they looked like they had dressed in the dark, but then again most people in London did. Gabriel found they no longer had the style they used to.

Daniel didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. He just walked up to them, smiled, and patted Gabriel’s shoulder. “You really got the interview, then? Good luck! Hopefully we’re going to be colleagues, huh?” he smiled broadly, and finally glanced at Beelzebub. If he thought anything of their rather bizarre attire, he said nothing of it. But then again he’d lived in London for a long time, watching people show up at Tesco Express in their pajamas. “Friend of Gabriel, huh? Nice to meet you. I’m Daniel,” he said, holding out his hand. 

Beelzebub looked at it like Daniel had just handed them a dead fish; it likely didn’t happen often that a mortal walked up to them and tried to shake their hand. They glanced over at Gabriel, who realized he had about thirty seconds to avert a crisis. 

“Er… yes, this is Beel--” Gabriel began, only to pause when it truly hit him how much of a _bad_ idea saying that aloud would be. From the other side of the table, Beelzebub managed to convey without words that they thought he was an utter idiot, but offered no help.

_Ba’al,_ he thought, but he still remembered so little attached to that name, the memory barely uncovered… and besides it would undoubtedly cause fury he rather wanted to avoid. In the end, Gabriel forced the smile back on. “... Bill,” he finished.

Beelzebub’s retaliation came swiftly in the form of a kick on the shin, but they didn’t contradict him, and Gabriel decided he could count himself lucky for that. And the fact he’d gotten away with only a kick in the shin in the first place.

Luckily, Daniel didn’t seem to notice anything wrong. Or maybe there _was_ something there, hesitation as he stared at the Prince of Hell - it would occur to Gabriel only later that he was trying to assign them a gender - but he said nothing of it. “Nice to meet you, Bill,” was all he said. “Do you mind if I join--”

“I have urgent matters to attend,” Beelzebub said, and stood suddenly, nearly knocking back the chair. They turned to glare at Gabriel, eyes icy. “Do think of what I told you,” they muttered, and marched off without a word. The door opened, slammed closed, and they were gone - as were the flies that had been buzzing by the ceiling. Daniel blinked.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“... They had a headache,” Gabriel replied, and forced himself to tear his gaze off the door. The realization was staggering - that they’d known each other before the Fall, that Gabriel had tried to warn them against the wrong sort of companies, that they had stood before one another during the Battle without either being able to lift the weapon on the other - but Beelzebub was gone, and Gabriel chose to chase it all from his mind for the time being.

It no longer mattered whether they had known each other. That part of his existence was over.

He had other matters to attend, too. 

_It gets easier once you accept it._

* * *

“Crowley?”

“Angel.”

“Do you think we knew each other?”

“... Huh?” Crowley blinked, glancing over. Aziraphale was leaning on the bench’s backrest, staring at the waterfowl and uncharacteristically uninterested in the ice cream cone in his hand. “We have known each other for a good while, no?”

“Before the Fall, I mean.”

Ah, now that was… something Crowley had never considered. He never even tried to remember anything from that time, because it hurt like a mallet to the brain and honestly, he could do without it. And it wouldn’t work, anyway. “Guess it’s possible,” he conceded. “But unlikely. There was… what, twenty million between all of us?” he shrugged, leaning back. 

Aziraphale nodded. “Ah, yes. It makes sense,” he said, and glanced down at his cone to notice that an especially brave - and fat - squirrel was now sapling it, standing on his knee. He chuckled, and lowered it a little to make it easier to reach. “Well-- it doesn’t really matter, does it? We know each other well enough now.”

Crowley grinned. “No,” he agreed, and reached into his pocket to pull out something - a pace torn out of an old newspaper. “So, uh, about the idea we had to move to the South Downs…”

Aziraphale glanced over to see a picture of green hills beneath a blue sky. It looked… quite heavenly, really. Then he read the name, and burst out laughing, scaring the squirrel away. 

_Devil’s Dyke Walking Trails,_ the title read. _Devil’s Dyke is perfect for a summer walk._

“Oh!” Aziraphale snickered, reaching up to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes. “Oh, dear. Summer is nearing its end though, isn’t it?”

“Is that a no?” Crowley asked, trying to sound like he wouldn’t especially care either way and failing rather spectacularly.

Aziraphale smiled. “Why, not at all. But perhaps we should see how it is in summer, before we decide. A brief visit to get the feel of it before autumn entirely settles in.”

Crowley’s attempt at a neutral expression turned into a smirk. “Tomorrow?” he asked, hopeful.

Ah, he was supposed to open the store the next day, maybe for a couple of hours in the afternoon, but as Gabriel was already headed to Southampton for the interview he was sure to pass, there was no real reason to do so. His smile widened.

"Tomorrow sounds lovely.”

* * *

The letter was on the desk of Gabriel’s hotel room before he even walked in. A simple sheet of paper, no envelope, and the handwriting - ah, he knew it well. How many times had he gone over paperwork Michael filled up? 

The notion that Michael knew where he was filled him with dread, but he didn’t turn and run. He looked around, yes, but found that the room was empty, and he relaxed a little, the hammering of his heart slowing down. He stepped forward and stared at the piece of paper for a long time, Crowley’s words eching in his mind. 

_Had it been you receiving the order and Michael the one on the ground, would you have refused to do what God asked of you?_

No. No, he wouldn’t have. He would have done precisely the same, while hating every moment of it. Anyone can be loyal and obedient when the orders are easy to follow; the real test comes when they are… not. And he’d have been just as loyal to God as they were.

_Once a servant, always a servant._

With a sense of shame heavy in his chest - how wrong it seemed, feeling shame for his utter devotion to the Almighty - Gabriel finally stepped forward, picked up the letter, and began to read.

* * *

_Gabriel,  
__I do hope you are as well as you can be, given the circumstances. I understand you have no wish to see us, and we will not impose.  
__We cannot begin to understand God’s reasons to order such a thing of us, and to punish you alone._ _All we knew was that we owed obedience. We never wished for any harm to come to you. I hope you know that.  
__Should you ever need us, all you need to do is call out our names, and we’ll be there. Always.  
_Michael.

* * *

For a very long time, Gabriel - once the Archangel Gabriel, now a human to be known as Gabriel F. Archer - kept reading those words over and over, a knot in his throat and a weight on his chest, the phantom wings on his back aching at the memory of what had been done to him. A couple of times, he was very, very close to crumpling the letter… but he did not. 

With a long sigh, Gabriel put the letter in a drawer, shut it, and tried to forget all about it. 

He tried to forget about a lot of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And Jesus called them to him and said to them, “You know that those who are considered rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones exercise authority over them. But it shall not be so among you. But whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be slave of all. For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many."  
> \-- Mark 10:42-45


	13. James 4:11 - Companion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer than usual because I added a full page of fluff between Crowley and Aziraphale that has little to nothing to do with the rest. But I left it where it is ‘cause Christmas, I guess, and you really cannot count on Ineffable Bureaucracy for fluff.

_The angel Gabriel from heaven came_ _  
_ _His wings as drifted snow_ _  
_ _His eyes as flame..._

“Of all songs, did they _have_ to pick this one?”

“Hah! Don’t like Sting?”

Something did sting all right and, as a matter of fact, he did not like that, but Gabriel knew better than to explain why those words - a song about his most well-known task and the mention of his wings, which _had_ been white as drifted snow except for the faint purplish tint of the primary feathers - made him wish he could shut himself in a dark, quiet place for a century or two or twenty. 

“You could say that,” Gabriel finally muttered, mildly thankful of the fact the background noise in the pub made it easy enough to shut out the lyrics if he didn’t focus on it too much. 

Daniel shrugged. “I don’t mind it. But maybe we’ve just had it up to here with Christmas songs by now. I swear that every year they start playing them earlier and earlier. We were just through Halloween and bam, Christmas. I swear I’ve been hearing jingles ever since.”

Ah, yes. Halloween. Gabriel made a face, trying not to think of the laughs everyone at the warehouse got at his expenses from time to time over his less than measured reaction when several workers had come in dressed up as demons. Namely, screaming and trying to climb up the closest scaffold. Even Daniel had been unable to keep himself from laughing to tears - but really, how was he _supposed_ to know it was just pretend and not, well, _actual_ demons?

Of course, that wasn’t something he could say aloud, so he had to resign himself to the fact that everyone working in the warehouse thought he was, to put it mildly, a scaredy cat. Not that it had done much damage, aside from the occasions ‘boo!’ shouted behind him to try getting him to repeat the performance; somehow, it seemed to have actually helped. 

“I found you a little stuck up at first, but you know what, you’re good fun,” someone had said, and that seemed to be the general consensus. Plus, the fact he was able to speak to every single worker in their native language - English, Polish, Romanian, Urdu, German, Italian, you name it; he hadn’t lost that sort of knowledge - had gained him a lot of respect despite what they probably perceived as oddities from his part. 

That was… not the kind of workplace he was used to, but chances were that no one would hold him down to tear out a pair of limbs because a CEO told them to, and Gabriel found he liked that in co-workers. Besides--

“Gabriel? Did you hear a word of what I said?”

“Huh?” Gabriel looked up from his glass, and his confused expression was probably enough of an answer. Daniel rolled his eyes a little, and took a swig from his glass before he spoke again. 

“I asked what plans you’ve got for Christmas.”

“Plans?”

“... I take it you have none?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Not really,” he murmured. Christmas was celebrated in Heaven as well, of course, though not the way mortals did. It was one impressive birthday party, although the birthday boy himself rarely showed up in the high spheres to see them. Now he certainly wasn’t in the mood to celebrate it either way. 

“Ah. Don’t you have any family? Sorry if that’s personal, it’s just that you never mentioned--”

“I had-- siblings,” Gabriel cut him off, blurting out what he felt was probably the closest term a human would understand, and emptied the glass. When he spoke again, his voice was beyond bitter. “We’re not on speaking terms.”

_I understand you have no wish to see us, and we will not impose._

Daniel nodded, his expression grave. “... I understand.”

“I don’t think you do,” Gabriel muttered, more harshly than he meant to. 

Daniel didn’t seem fazed. “Did they do something, or--”

“They cast me out,” Gabriel snapped, slamming the empty glass down. “They just-- they were told to cast me out, and they did. I...” he paused, and swallowed. He hadn’t heard from Crowley or Aziraphale in the past couple of months, but now the demon’s voice rang in the back of his mind, loud and clear as though he was standing right there before him. 

_Had it been you receiving the order and Michael the one on the ground, would you have refused to do what God asked of you?_

_All we knew was that we owed obedience,_ the letter read.

“... They cast me out,” he repeated, and leaned back against his seat. It still hurt to think of it; the scars over his shoulder blades ached at the memory. “And then they went and said I could call for them whenever, but I can’t. I won’t.”

“Maybe they want to make amends,” Daniel said slowly. He put down his glass, still half full; he spoke slowly, carefully. “Maybe they-- regret throwing you out.”

_We never wished for any harm to come to you. I hope you know that._

“Maybe,” he finally said, gesturing for the waitress to bring him another drink by lifting up the empty glass. He was getting used to alcohol, sort of, but three drinks seemed to be his limit and he had no intention to surpass it, so that would be his last for the evening. “I doesn’t really matter. We’re through.”

“I’m sure that if you did take their offer and tried to call--”

“What, are you their advocate now?” Gabriel snapped again, and immediately regretted it. He groaned, rubbing his face. “... My apologies. It is a sore subject.”

“No, no, I get it,” Daniel immediately backpedalled. “I’m sorry. I pressed on without even knowing what happened. I just-- you know, sort of know how it is, wanting to make contact after… something stupid and cruel you wish you could take back, but can’t.”

Daniel’s wistful tone, more than his words, got Gabriel’s full attention. He stared at him across the table as another gin and tonic was put in front of him; he thought back at Aziraphale, how dignified he was while stepping into Hellfire, how hard facing him was when, even after all that, he went out of his way to _help_ him.

_“Do you regret what you did, or do you only regret where it landed you?”_

_“I regret it. I do. I’m sorry.”_

“Yes,” Gabriel finally said. “Guess I know what it’s like, too. Actually, everything happened because I did something stupid and cruel I did and can’t take back.”

“Mmh. Want to talk about it?”

Gabriel lowered his gaze back on the glass. “Not really.”

“I see,” Daniel said, and thankfully didn’t pry: he just took a long swig of his pint before putting down the glasses. “... Maybe there is still time to fix it. It’s what I tell myself all the time.”

Gabriel glanced up. “Fix what?”

“Whatever you did wrong.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” Gabriel muttered, then, “what _is_ it you want to fix?”

For a few moments, Daniel said nothing. He stayed silent, seemingly debating with himself whether or not he wanted to answer, then he sighed. “Ah, you see - there is someone I-- well. I had a sister. I still do, I think, she can’t be that old but you never know. I’ll know for sure once I find her.”

“Oh?” Gabriel took a sip, frowning a little. Daniel had only ever talked about his wife, and not very much: he was tight-lipped when it came to his life before he found himself in the streets. All Gabriel had gathered was that his wife had died of cancer, and he had no other family. No mention had been made of an estranged sister before. 

Daniel nodded, frowning down at his own glass. “Yeah. I don’t like talking about it, but-- she was my older sister. Her name was - is - Alison. She was way older than me, by almost fifteen years. She must be about seventy now, but I can’t picture that very well. She was twenty-five last I saw her. I was eleven. And Christ, I was a catastrophic dick.”

“I can’t picture an eleven year old boy being such a catastrophic dick,” Gabriel muttered. “Unless it’s the Antichrist, then I guess I can.”

Entirely unaware of the fact that statement was not a joke at all, Daniel chuckled. “Heh. I guess I was just following my parents’ lead. They were the ones who told her to fuck off, and I repeated every single shitty thing they said.” Another long swig. “I wouldn’t now. Those were different times, and I was a kid. But that’s the convenient excuse, isn’t it? Different times and all that.”

“What did she do?”

“She was into women.”

Gabriel blinked. “... Weren’t you as well?”

“What-- well, I was a kid, but-- well, yes, but I am-- a guy. You know? Adam and Eve and all that.”

 _Oh,_ right. That was a thing with humans, getting hung up on such insignificant things. “I’d wager their example is not one anyone should strive to follow. Adam and Eve’s, I mean. When you get kicked out of Eden, you know you’ve done something wrong.” He made a face. “Believe me.”

A chuckle, half-hearted. “Heh. Not a bad point, that. But that’s not the way people thought at the time. Our parents sure didn’t. And I thought whatever they told me to think. When you’re that age you still think your parents can do no wrong, you know? Like they’re God or something.”

There was a painful twinge in Gabriel’s chest that he did his best to ignore. “I understand.”

“So she-- stood there, and took the insults, and if not for the fact that her girlfriend was there I think our father would have tried to beat it out of her. But that woman looked like she could break him over her knee, so he didn’t. He just screamed. My mother screamed and cried. And Alison looked at me.” Daniel threw back his head, finishing the pint in one gulp. 

Gabriel suspected he knew what he was going to say next, but he kept quiet and waited for him to speak again. When he did, his voice was tight. “I told her she was disgusting, and that I never wanted to see her again. It was stupid, and it was cruel, and… I didn’t even fully understand what was going on, I think. But I knew it was something that made our father furious, and it made our mother cry, and I hated her for it. I told her I never wanted to see her again,” he repeated, like he could scarcely believe it. 

“... And you did not.”

“I did not. She was told to leave, and she left - they both did. Skipped town.” A pause. “... I got a letter from her a couple of years later. It was addressed to me only. I always picked up the mail, she must have known I would get it before our parents did.”

“What did it say?”

Daniel grimaced, giving him a look that was pained and ashamed in equal measure. “I don’t know. I recognized her handwriting and just threw the envelope in the fire. We moved home a few months later and I never got anything from her again.”

“And that was--”

“Forty years ago. I began looking for her about ten years ago. I figured it would be easier with all the technology - Facebook and Instagram and whatnot, if you listen to folks everybody is on it. But not her, apparently. I can’t find her anywhere. Maybe she’s too old for that crap. I tried with electoral registers, but… nothing. I guess she might have opted not to be on the public list, or changed her name, or…” he paused, the next words he’d clearly been about to utter - _or she’s dead -_ never getting past his lips. In the end, he sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I’m starting to think it would take a miracle.”

As Daniel turned to gesture for the waiter to get him another pint, Gabriel looked back down at his unfinished drink, his brows knitting together in thought. 

“Yes,” he said slowly, more to himself than to Daniel. “I suppose it would.”

“But maybe it’s for the best that I don’t find her,” Daniel said, turning back to him. He looked saddened. “Maybe she doesn’t want to see me ever again, either. I was awful to her. I didn’t know any better, never occurred to me to defy our parents, but-- yeah, I can’t take back what I did. I only wish I could let her know I’m sorry.”

 _We cannot begin to understand God’s reasons to order such a thing of us, and to punish you alone,_ the letter on his desk had said. _All we knew was that we owed obedience. We never wished for any harm to come to you._

“You know,” Gabriel said slowly, “you shouldn’t despair just yet. Miracles do happen, after all.”

_Should you ever need us, all you need to do is call out our names, and we’ll be there. Always._

* * *

_“Ba’al.”_

_“Ah, Gabriel. I was wondering where--”_

_“Where have you been?”_

_“... I don’t like your tone.”_

_“You were with Astaroth again, weren’t you? And Lucifer, and--”_

_“Maybe. So what?”_

_“You know what! It’s… the wrong sort.”_

_“The wrong sort for what?”_

_“To be around. The things they say - it’s not an amusing joke anymore. Everyone is on edge. Patience is running thin. They have stopped short of declaring themselves above God so far, but it seems a matter of time before something happens, and when it does--”_

_“Maybe we are above God. Them, me, you.”_

_“What-- Ba’al!”_

_“We do all the work, no? God has done nothing but give orders in eons. Why shouldn’t we take-”_

_“Don’t you dare say such a thing! None of us is above--”_

_“Be quiet, Archangel! Remember it’s a Virtue you’re talking to!”_

_“I-- you--” Hesitation, because never before did Ba’al bring up their superior rank, but only for a moment. “You’re a Virtue because God willed so! You exist because God willed so! You can’t seriously think--”_

_“What I think is none of your business.”_

_An attempt at walking past Gabriel. Gabriel refusing to budge. “Please. I don’t understand what’s gotten into you.”_

_A pause. “... If you really want to understand, come with me one of these days.” A step forward, a hand held out in invitation. “Maybe you’ll change your mind once you listen--”_

_“I won’t! Are you out of your mind?”_

_No answer, for a few moments; only a long, icy silence. “... Perhaps you should be on your way, then, Archangel Gabriel. You wouldn’t want to be caught hanging with one of the wrong sort, would you?”_

_“What? No, I didn’t mean you, you’re not--”_

_“And how would you know?”_

_More silence; not icy, but stunned. “I-- I know you.”_

_“... No. You do not.”_

* * *

_I knew him, before the Fall._

Of course, was nothing new: Beelzebub had known that annoying little piece of trivia for well over three months now, during which he had avoided that _insufferable_ idiot like the pla-- no, wait. Not like the plague, they had quite enjoyed that despite part of history despite--  
_I was a healer once wasn’t I_ _  
_ \-- the sudden increase in the influx of souls in Hell. That had resulted in some serious pressure on the chronically understaffed New Arrivals department - the understaffing was intentional, of course, or else it wouldn’t be Hell - as well as a few headaches.

And speaking of headaches, there was one threatening to split their skull right now. Served them right, Beelzebub through, for trying to remember. Why do that? It was painful, and whatever they dredged up couldn’t possibly be worth it. Gabriel wasn’t worth the hassle of trying to change his mind. He wanted to live as a mortal? Fine then, let him live as a mortal. 

He’d die eventually and when it happened, Beelzebub could bet a six hundred and sixty-six souls that he’d find himself in Hell - because God was no better than the worst of them, except when it came to PR - and oh, how they’d _laugh,_ then. They’d laugh in his stupid face and throw him in some pit to be tortured for all eternity, because he could forget getting a nice, important role after rejecting the offer so many times. And then they’d never glance in his direction again. 

They’d never have to _remember._ Just cast him down, like he’d cast _them_ down, and… and…

_But he did not. It was Michael._

_“I had a spear, and your sword was broken…”_

_“Gabriel, what are you waiting for? Strike them down!”_

But he had not. Neither of them had moved, which was… stupid. Why had they not moved? Why had he not struck them down?

_“No, I didn’t mean you, you’re not--_

_Enough._ Beelzebub shook their head to chase away the memory, expecting another spike of pain in their head, but nothing happened. Well, now that was… interesting. Memories were painful to pull up from the depths of their mind, but once they managed to do that thinking of them caused no more pain. Nothing to keep them from revisiting them. 

“Lord Beelzebub? Is something the matter?”

Dagon’s voice seemed to come from a mile away. Sprawled on their throne, Beelzebub looked up.

“Nothing’s the matter,” they buzzed. Whether Dagon believed it or not, she knew better than to argue. “What is it?”

“We have received a report from the demon you assigned to watch the Archangel Gabriel.”

_“Be quiet, Archangel! Remember it’s a Virtue you’re talking to!”_

“That idiot is no angel,” Beelzebub snapped, straightening themselves. “He’s a mortal. He’s _nothing_ but a waste of time and resources. Give the demon another assignment and forget about him.”

Dagon blinked a few moments, taken aback, but she was quick to recover. “Yes, my Lord,” she said, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Beelzebub called out, and held out their hand. “... The report.”

May as well read it, and _then_ forget all about that fool.

* * *

Sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the letter he’d found himself unable to throw away, Gabriel felt increasingly foolish as minutes passed and he did nothing, said nothing, called out for no one. He couldn’t do it. He just _couldn’t do it._

Calling out names - or just one name, you don’t need _several_ archangels for one miracle - was all that it would take, and they could make Daniel’s wish come true by finding out where his sister was, if she was even still alive. 

Such a huge change to his life, with minimal effort… and no risk. He _knew_ none of them would harm him again. He _knew_ none of them had wanted to do it in the first place, but still he couldn’t will himself to do it. The mere thought brought him back to when he had last called out their names, _cried_ out their names as he begged for the pain to stop, for them to _stop hurting him._

_“Michael, please! Uriel-- Sandalphon-- no, no, no, please please--”_

Gabriel swallowed, trying to ignore the burning sensation over his shoulder blades, and forced himself to relax his grip on the letter before he damaged it. He threw it back in the drawer and slammed it shut, then reached to take his phone, and dialled the number to Aziraphale’s shop.

The thought of turning to him for help again left a sour taste in his mouth - _after what I did, after all he’s already done_ \- but it felt less unbearable than the alternative. He’d explain he needed to help a human and he’d help, or his demon would, and that would be it. Easy. Convenient.

Except that no answer came; the phone rang and rang, but no one picked up and Gabriel realized, belatedly, that Aziraphale had mentioned leaving London around Christmas time for a few days.

“Leave a message and I’ll get back to you,” he’d said. There were few things Gabriel was better at than delivering messages, but this time he just ended the call without leaving any. He would just call back; there was no rush, after all. He could take care of that in the New Year. 

He failed to take into consideration, even after living as one for months, how frail humans truly are - and how easily their lives are snuffed out, without warning.

* * *

“You did what!”

“Gave the wrong directions to the Wise Men.”

“Crowley, for the love of-- you did not!”

“Why do you think they only got there in January? They lost the star and asked for directions.”

“How do you _lose_ a star?”

“Well, it was cloudy.”

“I see. And you absolutely had nothing to do with it, did you?”

Crowley grinned. Aziraphale made a sound halfway between a snort and a rather undignified giggle. 

“I can’t believe you.”

“Oh, you do. How long have we known each other?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“All right, _that we can recall,_ we have known each other for some six-thousand years, give or take a few months. So yes, you can absolutely believe that I gave wrong directions to the Wise Men. It’s got my name all over it. In my defense, they did the worst part on their own.”

“The worst part?”

“Picking the gifts. Newborn shivering in the cold, and they bring incense and gold and whatnot. Not very wise of them. Why not a blanket?”

“Gold can buy many blankets.”

“Not in the middle of the night in Bethlehem, it can’t.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t have arrived at night if _someone_ hadn’t thrown them off course.”

“Nice try, angel, but they were travelling at night, following a comet that just so happened to be heading the right direction. They wouldn’t have arrived during the day anyway.”

A sigh. “All right, fair,” Aziraphale conceded, and went back to looking up. The night sky was perfectly clear, the stars so very close. The valley below them was almost completely dark. 

“Maybe we could visit Alpha Centauri,” Crowley said. “A vacation. But I like it here, for now.”

“A demon, enjoying a visit to the Devil’s Dyke? Who would have thought.”

“Did I just experience a microaggression here? The betrayal,” Crowley sighed in mock hurt, leaning back on the blanket they had lain on the grass. They both could keep their body temperature in check easily, but neither had wanted to really bother, so they were wearing thick coats and, in Aziraphale’s case, a woolen hat. “You know how this place came to be, right?” Crowley asked.

“Ah, I heard the myth. The devil was digging a trench to let the sea flood churches, but the noise disturbed an old lady who lit a candle. The devil thought daybreak had come and fled, leaving it unfinish-- wait. Oooh, wait. Don’t tell me…?”

“... In my defense, I was drunk.”

Aziraphale laughed, a gloved hand to his mouth. “That would have been amusing to watch.”

“You were busy running around with the Knight of the Round Table,” Crowley muttered, and looked up again, the glasses off his face. Aziraphale followed his gaze up to the stars. 

“You know what would be nice? Snow would be nice.”

“Snow, on Christmas Eve? Groundbreaking,” Crowley sneered, but he was already lifting a hand to snap his fingers, and clouds began closing in above them. Aziraphale smiled and said nothing as the first snowflakes began dancing through the air, illuminated by the headlights of the Bentley.

* * *

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want to come dine with us?”

“Yes. I’m tired.”

“It will be fun. Łukasz is going to make carbonara, but he’s putting cream in it and we’re all going to watch Fabrizio have a full-blown meltdown.”

“Didn’t Fabrizio say his grandmother would kill him if he didn’t make it home for Christmas?’

“Couldn’t afford the tickets right on the day. He’ll go before New Year’s, if he survives the shock of eating carbonara with cream. So, did I convince you?”

Gabriel - who couldn’t begin to imagine what could be so bad about adding cream to carbonara, a position that would have severely disappointed Aziraphale and caused roughly sixty million Italians to froth at the mouth - smiled a little. “Do get his reaction on video for me,” he said, causing Daniel’s smile to fade.

“Are you really sure? It doesn’t seem right, being alone on Christmas Eve.”

“I’ll live,” Gabriel said, his voice somewhat hollow. He tried not to think of the celebration they would hold in Heaven for the birthday of God’s son, tried not to wonder if it would be held that year too with him gone. He made an effort to smile. “If it gets bad, I’ll show up uninvited.”

“You’re already invited, idiot,” Daniel muttered with a laugh and one more worried look, but he did not insist further. When they parted ways it was already dark, and Gabriel just began walking, not really minding where he was going, barely even looking up. When he _did_ look up, he found himself staring at the pier. 

_Well, good job I did look up,_ Gabriel thought, sitting on a bench. It was cold, but at least it hadn’t rained. _Or I’d have walked right in the water and I am not entirely sure I would be able to swi--_

“You know, this is where the Titanic set off. A good place.”

_“Gah!”_

“Oh, _please._ I wasn’t even trying to startle you.”

Gabriel turned to look up, so suddenly it almost made him dizzy, to see Beelzebub perched on the backrest of the bench he was sitting on. They tilted their head on one side, looking at him. 

“You look aged.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw. It was the first he saw of the Prince of Hell since he’d stormed out of that café three months earlier, although he was fairly sure they did, at the very least, have him under surveillance. 

“What do you want?” he asked, full expecting them to answer ‘your soul’. 

Beelzebub didn’t reply: they just slipped down to sit next to him. They weren’t bothering to wear a coat proper coat, but then again it was probably for the best. Gabriel didn’t quite want to imagine what atrocity Beelzebub would consider a proper coat.

“They got some idiot to deal with the appeals,” they informed him, causing Gabriel to frown a little. He’d put the appeals system in place himself, for souls to make their case that Hell had claimed them unfairly - far more civilized than having a skirmish each time over a soul. Beelzebub hadn’t been especially keen on it at the start, but in the end they had agreed to it.

Needless to say, nearly everybody who found themselves in Hell filed an appeal, but there were very few cases, relatively speaking, that were truly considered and reached Gabriel’s desk. 

Of course, Hell would fight tooth and nail to keep each soul, but he and the Lord of the Flies had always managed to keep those discussions in the ream of civility, meeting on neutral ground on Earth. Sometimes Hell kept the souls, some other times Heaven was able to snatch them, even more rarely it was Hell to put forward a motion to get someone’s soul out of Heaven and into Hell, claiming that significant sins had been overlooked. All in all, it was a challenge, and one that Gabriel had enjoyed, red tape and small writing as his weapons. There was a certain work ethic to Beelzebub, too, and he could respect that. 

“They did?”

“Yes, some nondescript angel who tries to argue too many cases at once. Or so I’m told.”

Gabriel blinked. “You haven’t met them?”

Beelzebub scoffed as though insulted. “Don’t make me laugh, I am the Prince of Hell. No time to waste arguing with someone so below me. They sent a nondescript angel, and they got a nondescript demon to deal with it.”

“Ah. I see.” Gabriel fell quiet, and looked out towards the sea, a cold wind ruffling his hair. It had grown, and he’d needed to have it cut for the very first time; needless to say, having someone stand behind him with a sharp object had been… unpleasant, even with the backrest shielding his back from it. Luckily, the barber’s chatter had served well enough to distract him. Overall it had been less disastrous than his first attempt at shaving. “Did you come to tell me that?”

Beelzebub frowned and leaned back against the bench, arms crossed and glaring at the nearby street light. “I have a question. And I demand an answer. Why didn’t you strike me down?”

That was… not what Gabriel had expected to hear. He blinked, turning back to them. “What?”

A glare. “Are you deaf now?”

“I _can’t_ strike you down, I have no powers--”

“Not now, idiot. During the Battle. Why _didn’t_ you?”

Ah. That. “I-- I don’t know.”

_You didn’t try to strike me, either._

A displeased buzzing sound. “That is not an answer. You can remember without your skull splitting in two, no?”

“Well, yes, but--”

“Then do better and remember.”

“Last we met, you didn’t want me to--”

 _“Don’t pretend you know me!”_ Beelzebub snapped, causing Gabriel to recoil. “I hate nothing more than a question unanswered, so you will give me an answer or else!”

“All right, all right,” Gabriel said quickly, still reeling a little. He… wasn’t precisely sure he wanted to remember himself - that past was dead and buried for a reason - but then again, you don’t say no to Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, without repercussions he’d rather avoid. If they wanted answers, they would have them… but he should get something in return, too. With Aziraphale unavailable and not really wanting to see his former _colleagues,_ at least he could get one question answered. 

“There might be something I’d like to ask you,” Gabriel finally spoke slowly, fully aware of the fact that trading favors with Beelzebub was… an awful idea. Beelzebub raised an eyebrow, looking mildly surprised, and Gabriel continued. “It’s about a departed soul,” he said. He hoped, truly _hoped_ that Daniel’s sister was not dead yet, but he didn’t want to explain too much to the Prince of Hell. They had already threatened a mortal to force him into a deal. “Alison Brown from Plymouth, born… sometime between 1948 and 1950, if my estimate is correct. I don’t know the date of death. I only want to know if she’s in Hell.”

“And why would you want to know if that particular soul is downstairs?”

Gabriel pressed his lips together, saying nothing. “Why do you want to dwell in the past?”

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes. “It’s on a need-to-know basis, and you do not need to know.”

“Likewise,” he retorted. He got himself an annoyed glance, but in the end they nodded. 

“Fine. Deal. I’ll have the records searched to find out if this ‘Alison Brown from Plymouth’ is in Hell, but when I return with the information I demand _answers_ before I give it to you. And if she _is_ one of ours,” they added, sneering, “I _might_ be willing to trade her soul for yours.”

Ah, Gabriel thought. Of course. Not too long ago, he would have been outraged at the suggestion that his soul was worth that of a mortal and no more. Now he just smiled a little. Despite everything, it was _almost_ a smirk. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d given up on trying to claim me.”

“No. You have well and truly pissed me off too many times _not_ to want you in my trophy room.”

“You have a trophy room?”

“You’ll be the starting point.”

“That’s oddly flattering.”

“Shut up.”

Gabriel smiled faintly and said nothing, waiting for Beelzebub to leave in a cloud of sulphur and smoke, leaving him alone on the pier. But they did not, nor did they say anything themselves. They both just sat there in silence, staring out at the pier beneath a starless sky - and while it was no Christmas party, it was still better than being alone.

* * *

“Do you think Yeshua is going to show up?”

“Doubtful. He never does.”

“Why do we bother celebrating his birthday, anyway? That’s the sort of thing mortals do. And he spends every single one of them on Earth.”

“Tradition, I suppose.”

“Who started it?”

A pause, and they all lifted their eyes up from their papers to glance at each other, a grim sort of realization dawning in. They couldn’t remember, and were not _supposed_ to ever forget things unless it was somehow related to the Fallen. As the Son of God had been born as a human long after the Fall… well, only one angel had been cast out of their ranks ever since.

Was it Gabriel who’d suggested they should celebrate the anniversary of the birth he’d announced himself as his best-known task? Did he enjoy celebrating it? How did he convince them? Michael couldn’t remember. It was nowhere in the notes she had written down. 

_Notes are not enough. They can never be enough. Anecdotes about a stranger we know we ought to care about, but cannot remember why._

“Maybe we could check on him,” Sandalphon spoke slowly. “Just to, er, check.”

“He didn’t call for us,” Uriel pointed out. “It would upset him.”

“He won’t know,” Sandalphon replied, and glanced over at Michael. She hesitated. 

“Aziraphale is keeping his promise to keep us updated,” she said slowly. It was true, of course, but it didn’t help much now that another realization hit her - she was forgetting what his voice sounded like. How do you write down the sound of someone’s voice?

“But he hasn’t met him since he left London. He only relies on what Gabriel tells him on the phone, and-- we can find him. We can _see_ how he’s doing, and... he won’t know it’s us.”

Michael stared a few moments and finally, slowly, she nodded. Uriel sighed, and nodded back. 

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Just to check.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up.”  
> \-- James 4:11


	14. Revelation 12:7-8 - Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance.

The War - the very first war to ever be fought, a violent uprising that came as a surprise to most because ah, for all the rumors they had never thought anyone would have the _audacity_ to rally arms against God - raged for eons and yet for a very short time.

Because at the, er, time, _time_ had not been invented yet; or at least, its linear nature had yet to be established. God still had it in the backburner, and would only will it into reality later. Relatively speaking. Without linear time, the concept of _later_ was rather fuzzy.

But in the chaos of the battle, everything was.

Gabriel had been in mid-air, spear in hand and trumpet at his belt, preoccupied with nothing but the message he had to deliver - _reinforcement to the Gates, they’re almost there, reinforcement to the Gates_ \- when something had ensnared him.

A _net._

Wings trapped, unable to break the bonds, Gabriel had been unable to defend himself from the attack that had followed. He’d been thrown down on ground that was not ground, next to a yawning abyss, and had brought up his spear just on time, the few inches the net allowed him, parrying what would have been a crushing blow.

The concept of _death_ was not a thing around there, either, but there was no need to wait a few eons until Cain and Abel’s disagreement to guess a crushing blow to one’s head was best avoided. There was a snarl, and the rebellious angel above him brought the axe up again, four wings blotting out the light coming from the stars as she towered above him and-- and--

_CLANG._

The axe came down, but never reached Gabriel, or his spear. A sword came up to meet it, cracked and shattered, but surprise was enough to make the rebel step back, seemingly incredulous. “Ba’al? What are you doing?”

_Ba’al?_

It was them, hilt of the broken sword still in hand, standing between him and his attacker. But it made no sense - Ba’al was one of them, they had turned against God and made themselves an enemy of Heaven, they--

“This one is mine.” Ba’al voice was low, threatening. The other angel, who would be known as Dagon once her _current_ name was lost to memory, stepped back. With all her stunned attention on Ba’al, she didn’t notice Gabriel frantically slicing through the net that kept him trapped. 

“Your sword is broken.”

“He’s just a messenger. A glorified errand boy, and ensnared. I can deal with--”

_“Gabriel!’_

A crack of thunder, the rush of wings through the air, Michael’s voice. Gabriel rolled some distance from the chasm and looked up to see her diving down towards them, sword lifted, ready to help him - but before she could reach him the one who’d become Dagon flew up to meet her. Weapons clashed, and Gabriel threw the last of the net off himself before he stood, and lifted his spear. 

Before him, Ba’al had sunk on one knee; now Gabriel could see they had overexerted themselves in the heath of the battle, while he soared over it to deliver vital messages. They were weakened and, with the sword broken almost to the hilt, virtually unarmed. One strike was all it would take. He lifted his spear, which had never felt so heavy in his hands before. 

“The wrong sort,” he rasped. “I tried to warn you.” 

His voice came out a sorrowful murmur; Ba’al looked up at him, defiance there again despite their predicament. “You still have time.”

“Time…?”

“To join our cause.”

_This one is mine._

_But you’re wrong. We belong to God. Why rebel? Why fight?_

“... Abandon this folly. You the one who’s still on time.”

A scoff. “Even you can’t be so stupid. You know we cannot turn back.”

Spear still raised, Gabriel shook his head. He knew it was true, but he didn’t want to admit it any more than he wanted to put the spear in his hands to use. “If you surrender, and plead for mer--”

 _“Never!”_ Ba’al voice came out a furious buzzing, and they stood with what seemed a terrible effort. The sword in their hand gleamed, the broken blade still dangerous. “I will _never_ beg!”

“Shut your stupid mouth and listen to--”

_“Gabriel, what are you waiting for? Strike them down!”_

_“Ba’al! Strike now!”_

Two voices rang out, Michael’s and that of the rebel angel, still engaged in a fight above them. Both Gabriel and Ba’al looked up to see Michael was gaining the upper hand, and fast; she was a fierce warrior, something Gabriel had been unaware of as none of them had ever had a _reason_ to fight before the rebellion started. Any moment now she would make away with her opponent, then she’d turn her attention to Ba’al, and… and…

_Strike them down!_

_I don’t want to._

For a single, terrifying moment, Gabriel found himself at a crossroads: obey an order that he knew came straight from God - _defend the Gates, cast out the rebels_ \- or… not doing that. 

_Join our cause._

He didn’t want to join their cause. He didn’t want to cast them out. He didn’t want to _be_ struck down. He didn’t know what to _do,_ and he never had to go through the agony of making a choice: Ba’al took the matter into their own hands. With a sudden cry they rushed at him, nimble and fast, swinging the broken sword up before Gabriel could even try to parry. 

The broken blade glinted, flashed towards his face, and never hit him. What _did_ strike him was the hilt, slamming against the side of his head. Gabriel tumbled down, stunned, and the spear was torn out of his hands. When he looked up, Ba’al was towering over him, the tip of his own spear only inches away from Gabriel’s face. An easy target. An easy victory Ba’al did not claim.

“... Fool. Next time you cross my path, I shall take you down,” they said, their voice flat, and it was the last thing Ba’al, the Virtue, would ever say to him. They soared up the next moment with a powerful beat of their wings, leaving him on the ground next to the chasm they could so easily have cast him into, to aid their fellow rebel in the fight against Michael.

It was a fight they would lose, but Gabriel was not there to witness it. He had a message to deliver and so he did, ignoring the ache that had not been caused by the blow, focusing on duty and duty only as he’d always done and would continue to do for eons to come. Soon enough the War was won, all memory of the Fallen faded and so, too, did the ache. 

They all welcomed it: forgetting fixed everything, took away the loss, vanquished regret.

You can’t miss someone you don’t remember.

* * *

“... He seems to be doing well.”

“Yes.”

“He does look good.”

“I don’t think the facial hair does much for him.”

“He got rid of it, see? This photo is dated the following week. It’s called _shaving,_ I believe.”

“Ah, I see.” There were a few moments of silence, all three of them staring down at the photos they had just been handed by a low-ranking angel. As it turned out, giving the task of checking on Gabriel to someone he was unlikely to recognize and who knew how to blend in with humans had been a good idea; Gabriel hadn’t realized he was being watched at all. 

The photos showed him at different times: leaving work, sitting in a café with a couple of mortals, jogging in a park - which Sandalphon _believed_ was something he used to enjoy before, too, but he was no longer entirely certain - and he did seem… fine. 

“Hard to imagine him being all right with life as a human, huh?” he muttered in the end, but the truth of the matter was that it _wasn’t._ It wasn’t hard at all, because… because…

“I am not sure I remember enough about him to know what we ought to have expected,” Uriel said, her voice quiet, speaking for all of them. “We remember things about him because we have been writing them down. We don’t remember him. We no longer _know_ him.”

It was true, of course, and there was probably little point in dancing around it. Lies didn’t go very far in Heaven, unless very well crafted. But ah, Sandalphon found he’d have preferred a lie.

“... The alternative is forgetting even that,” Michael said, putting the photos away. “I am not prepared to.”

“Even if God wills it?”

Uriel’s question was far more loaded than her calm tone suggested. It made Sandalphon recoil, and he found himself swallowing. His eyes shifted to Michael, who looked back at them with calm, steely resolve. “Even if God wills it,” she replied.

Coming from an arcangel, such words were dangerous. A moment of silence followed; there was no crack of thunder, no appearance from the Voice of God telling them to pack up and leave Heaven for good. As Sandalphon breathed out a sigh of relief, Uriel nodded. 

“... May I have one of the photos?” she asked. 

They each took one; Sandalphon got the one where he had that funny thing humans get on their faces, and put it in his pocket before speaking again. “Do you think he will ever call for us?”

“I don’t know. We should hope he never has to.”

“Unless he forgets about us, too.”

“He didn’t seem to have forgotten us at all last time,” Michael said, her voice bitter. The memories at the forefront of his mind clearly hadn't been good ones. “He certainly has not forgotten Aziraphale yet, he spoke to him recently. He’d have forgotten him too if--”

“Why isn’t _Aziraphale_ forgetting him at all?” Sandalphon asked, causing both Uriel and Michael to look back at him. He shrugged. “I know some _things_ don’t apply to him - like he didn’t burn with Hellfire - but I was thinking… after the War, he forgot about the Fallen like all of us.”

There were a few moments of silence. “... Something in him clearly changed since,” Michael finally said. She didn’t speculate aloud as to _what_ it may be, and she didn’t need to. They knew. 

What _had_ changed, without a shadow of a doubt, was that Aziraphale had hardly ever returned to Heaven in over six thousand years.

* * *

_No matching results._

“Ah, goddammit.” Daniel Brown closed his laptop with a sigh of frustration - almost _slammed_ it shut, but it was an old thing he’d bought second-hand and he couldn’t afford to break it - and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

 _Still nothing,_ he thought. Christ, there was nothing anywhere even confirming that his sister had _existed_ at any point. Memories of her were few and in-between; he had nothing of hers, not even a picture, a letter, a scrap of a document. Maybe he could find a way to get to her birth certificate, which would get him precisely nowhere in his search for her but would at least confirm that he was not crazy, that he wasn’t chasing after a woman who’d never even existed.

It made no sense: there had to be something somewhere, people don’t just vanish like that. His wife had been dead for years, but he could still find traces of her. There was obituary, her name still on the electoral roll at the address they lived in before she died and he lost the house.

There was the mention of her in that little article about her second prize at the local flower show - they had used a pretty unflattering picture, Liv had been more annoyed than she’d let by - and that long-deserted Facebook account she had made a couple of years before her death and barely used for anything, other than sharing pictures of cats and deep quotes about life by famous people who had all died before turning thirty. At least she’d made it to forty-seven. 

It wasn’t much, of course, but still traces of a _life_ that he could find with an Internet connection. When it came to Alison no matter how much he scoured records, including the kind you have to pay to access - he could find nothing, and was running out of options. He already had, really, just kept trying the same shit over and over in hopes it would somehow wield a result next time.

_But it won’t. I had my chance when she wrote and I blew it._

With a long sigh, Daniel stood - and then he faltered, leaning on the table a few moments when his vision swam and he felt faint. Ah, he’d forgotten to have dinner again. Maybe he should eat something now but he was tired, his head ached, and had an early morning ahead of him. 

He’d go to sleep, he decided, and have a good breakfast the next morning. Maybe he’d ask Gabriel to schedule his shifts a bit later in the morning for the next week, a little favor to a friend, and go on to have a normal day, trying not to think of his sister. Maybe he’d go out for a drink.

Then, at night, he’d be online to try again. Dead or alive, she had to be somewhere. 

She had to.

* * *

“It’s _impossible._ You know it’s impossible.”

“My Lord, we have scoured all the archives--”

“Then look better! I swear to Satan, are all the underlings on archive duty so incompetent--”

“I have _personally_ scoured the entirety of the archives when they failed to find a thing, my Lord.”

 _Ah._ Beelzebub’s features twisted in a displeased scowl; a couple of blisters on their face burst, a few flies trying to land on them before they shooed them away with a wave of their hand, the blisters immediately re-forming. As much as they wanted to continue with the tirade, they knew there would be no point to it.

Dagon wasn’t known as the Lord of the Files for nothing; if she said that there was no folder for any Alison Brown born in Plymouth between 1948 and 1950… then that meant there was no folder for any Alison Brown born in Plymouth in 1948, 1949, or 1950. End of discussion.

Even if it made _no sense._

“How can it be? There _must_ be a folder, even if she’s not in Hell,” Beelzebub muttered, their fury turning to confusion. They had one of those for every single mortal who was ever born on Earth. Every one, without fail, without exception. Bureaucracy in Hell was… hellish, and unorganised to be hard to navigate, but just as relentless as the one Heaven prided itself with. “Perhaps the _idiot_ is mistaken over the birth years--”

“I have checked the previous few years, and a couple after that. I found nothing. Maybe he was mistaken by several years, or about the name. Or the place of birth.”

“Seems unlikely. He _is_ an idiot, but not the sort of idiot who gets this kind of thing wrong.”

Dagon didn’t argue. She was wonderfully incurious over the reasons behind Beelzebub’s orders, and it suited them just fine. They were not looking to explain that they were making deals with a soul they were supposed to just collect, or why. 

“Either way, there is nothing on the mortal he described,” Dagon said. “The only explanation is that this person never existed, or else she’d be in our files.”

That, Beelzebub knew, was true. It _had_ to be true. “... Maybe he is, indeed, that kind of idiot,” they muttered. It had to be a mistake. They could see no reason why Gabriel would make them waste time by looking for the files of a person who did not exist.

“Do you wish me to order the underlings to keep looking?”

“As there is no folder to find, it would be useless, tedious labor wielding no result nor reward,” Beelzebub said. “Excellent. Do that and tell them the inevitable failure shall be punished.”

“I will, my Lord,” Dagon promised, her mood lifted at the prospect as the Lord of the Flies disappeared in sulphur and fire, leaving behind a few burnt flies and a scorch marks on the side of the throne.

* * *

Scorching hot water, Gabriel decided, was one of the most oddly satisfying things to endure once your body - mortal body, that is - gets used to it. So much so, in fact, that the vast majority of his time in the shower was spent simply standing beneath the stream of hot water, eyes closed and head tilted back.

How lucky, he mused, that not all the necessary tasks that plagued human existence were unpleasant. This was something he could keep doing for a long time, and he found it was surprisingly helpful when he had to focus and _think._

Not that his thoughts were doing much more than running in circles at the moment. 

_Next time you cross my path, I shall take you down,_

Had what he’d remembered really, _truly_ happened? It had all come flooding back to him while he was asleep, after trying and failing to recall things as far back as he could, so there was no telling whether it was truly a memory or just a dream, or a memory tainted by a dream. Just last week he’d dreamed something absurd about putting cake batter in the oven and pulling out a live goose with a blonde wig, which had then proceeded to wreak havoc in the room.

It could very well be something like that, and if it was… well, Beelzebub wanted _memories_ , and real ones at that. So before he told them anything about--   
_this one is mine_ _  
_ \-- the dream he had, he needed to be _certain_ it was, indeed, a memory. And besides, even if it were, that was not what Beelzebub had demanded of him. They already knew that Gabriel had passed on the chance to strike them down during the War. 

What they expected of Gabriel was to tell them _why._

 _I don’t know,_ Gabriel thought, and it was… only partially true. The reason why they had made no move that day, why they’d tried to get the other back on their respective side, was well within his reach. All he had to do was will himself to look at it, but it scared him in a way he couldn’t put into words. Once he did, once he knew, there would be no turning back. Chances were that Beelzebub may not appreciate whatever truth he may find there, either, and shoot the messenger because of course they would. 

Maybe he should-- ah, the water was beginning to run cold. Snapped from his musings, Gabriel shivered and reached to turn off the tap. All right, then: time to get out, dry off, and try to figure out what kind of nourishment he could get with as little work as possible before it was time for him to leave. He could think over his dilemma later, he decided, and pulled aside the curtain. 

To be greeted by the sudden appearance in the bathroom of a ball of fire. 

“Gah!” Gabriel cried out, trying to instinctively step back, and slipped, landing painfully on his backside and hitting the back of his head against the wall in the process. He made a face, reaching up to rub his head, just as the flames dissipated and Beelzebub appeared, sitting on the toilet seat as they would on their throne. 

They didn’t seem very impressed to see him soaked through in a heap on the floor.

“Why are you wet?”

“I was showering, humans need to keep clean--”

“Why are you on the floor?”

“You startled me!”

“Ah, so I did. Well, that was the intention.”

_“Why!”_

“I am the Prince of Hell,” Beelzebub pointed out, and Gabriel groaned. 

“Fair,” he muttered, pulling himself up from the slippery floor of the shower. It was a good reminder, if anything. _Beelzebub,_ not Ba’al. The _Prince of Hell,_ not the Virtue he’d known a long, long time ago and was just beginning to remember. “Can you hand me the towel, I left it hangi--”

Beelzebub raised a hand, and the towel came off the hook, pooling on the floor. That was… _not_ handing it to him, but Gabriel supposed he deserved it for thinking he could ask the Prince of Hell for a simple _favor._ “Many thanks,” he grumbled, walking out to pick it up. He wiped his face first, quickly towelled himself dry, and wrapped it around his waist because may as well - humans _did_ tend to cover up below the waist and he saw no reason to differ. “Why are you he--”

“They did do a number on you.”

Beelzebub’s voice was quiet, and something about it caused to Gabriel to go very still. He turned slowly to look back at them over his shoulder; their expression was blank, their eyes fixed on Gabriel’s upper back, where his wings had been. Where the scars were left. 

_Don’t look,_ he wanted to say, but words stayed stuck in his throat. He glanced over at the mirror, but it was too misted to see a thing on it. Better that way, he supposed. He didn’t need to see them. “... Michael is not known for leaving jobs half done,” Gabriel finally said, and turned to face the Lord of the Flies, hiding his back from their gaze. “Why are you here?”

Beelzebub shrugged. “We had a deal, did we not?”

Ah, yes. That. Gabriel drew in a deep breath, fully aware of the fact he was not dealing with a patient being who saw the value of delayed gratification. 

“I… haven’t got around to sit down and try to dig up memories yet, but I can--”

“The mortal you asked about never existed.”

Gabriel trailed off, blinking. He’d expected some anger, a demand to hold up to his end of the bargain, not… that. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll spare you a jab over _who_ you’re begging for pardon. This Alison Brown does not exist.”

That… couldn’t be. “That’s the name he gave me. I am sure. Alison.”

“Wrong place?”

“He said they were both born in Plymouth--”

“Wrong dates, then.”

“But she was twenty-five when he was eleven, and he was born in 1963, so that means that certainly within the time frame I estimated--”

“Spare me the maths. There is _no one_ that matches.”

“Perhaps, if she changed her name-- maybe a new surname--”

“It would be on our records along with the _old_ one,” Beelzebub pointed out, sounding in equal measure bored and annoyed. “Every mortal who is ever born has a folder, both in Hell and Heaven, keeping track of their sins and good deeds respectively. Every one of them, without exception. You of all people ought to know that, since you were _such_ a pain in the ass about it when you insisted the forms should match.”

Gabriel frowned. “Well, it made perfect sense that they should match, if we were to ever compare them in case a soul appealed--” he trailed off when Beelzebub reached to knock the can of shaving gel off the counter, entirely expressionless as they did. It bounced on the tiles with a clattering noise, rolling at Gabriel’s feet. He held back a sigh. “Why did you feel the need to do that?”

“You’re changing the subject. Don’t.”

“Or you’re going to knock down my toothbrush?”

“I may just go straight for your teeth, so you no longer need it,” Beelzebub buzzed, and Gabriel promptly shut his mouth. Truth be told, he was beginning to doubt Beelzebub would act on… _most_ of their threats to him, but either way there had to be a line somewhere that he didn’t want to be stepping over. At the very least he should pick his battles; this one was not worth his teeth.

Unaware of his thoughts, Beelzebub seemed very pleased by Gabriel’s silence. 

“That’s a smart human. If all you told me is true, can you explain how come there is no trace of this person’s existence anywhere in Hell’s archives?”

“Perhaps you misplaced the folder?”

“I misplace nothing.”

“I mean-- someone else? Whoever is in charge of that department?” Gabriel muttered. There had to be something, unless Daniel had entirely made up that story about his sister… but why would he? What reason would he have to make up a story like that to tell him over a drink? He had nothing to gain from that. And regret had been so obvious on his face and in his voice, Gabriel couldn’t imagine he had simply pretended for no reason whatsoever. 

“Impossible,” Beelzebub was saying. “That is Dagon’s department. Lord of the Files. She is more likely to distribute candy to orphans across Earth than she is to _misplace_ a folder.”

Gabriel, who was still not entirely over watching the Antichrist choose not to be the Antichrist as well as an angel standing in Hellfire without a single hair being scorched, almost pointed out that _impossible_ should probably be erased from all vocabularies in existence. But as he was not looking forward to an argument over Hell’s competence or lack thereof - Beelzebub was touchy on the subject, he’d found out over the millennia - he decided not to.

Picking his battles and all that. 

“Perhaps an underling misplaced it,” he said, picking a less unlikely suggestion. Beelzebub paused, clearly thinking that was… slightly less beyond the realm of possibilities.

“If that is the case, they will be punished.”

“It’s not necessary--”

_“Harshly.”_

“There really is no need--”

“Don’t presume you can tell me how I should run Hell.”

“... Right. Yes. Of course. Do you think you can-- go make sure they check again?”

“They already are. Of course, there is another way to be absolutely certain,” Beelzebub muttered, tilting their head on one side. “Someone ought to check _upstairs._ If they have no folder either, then I am right, you are wong, and this person never existed.”

Ah, of course. That was an option, he supposed, except for the detail he had no intention whatsoever to turn to turn to Heaven for help. Perhaps Aziraphale would, but-- ah, it still left a bad taste in his mouth, turning to him for _more_ help after… after everything. 

“I’m sure it won’t be needed. There must be a mistake, I’m certain the search will turn up--”

“What is it, are you afraid to be proven wrong?”

“No,” Gabriel snapped, annoyance coming back in full force. “I am not that petty. I simply don’t think Heaven need be involved.”

Beelzebub paused a moment, blinking. “Ah, right,” they muttered. “You are still afraid of them.”

Was he? Gabriel was not sure. He dreaded the idea of finding himself in _their_ presence, but it was something more visceral than simple fear of harm; he knew they would not. They had no reason to harm him, not anymore; they had never wanted to.

But they had. His brethren had struck him down, while the being before him… a long time ago...

No, no, _no._ He couldn’t go there. “I am not afraid,” he snapped, gaining himself a scoff. 

“You know _where_ lies land you, don’t you?”

“I cut ties with them, all right? It’s not like I can simply turn around and go ‘Michael, I need you to do me a favor, can you come help me out?’ and she will simply drop everything to--” 

_Should you ever need us, all you need to do is call out our names, and we’ll be there._

_Wait._

Gabriel’s brain caught up just a moment too late - which was an improvement on his usual track record of ‘several moments too late’, but still not enough, and trailing off did not help. There was a bright bolt of lighting out of seemingly nowhere, surprisingly non-deafening in the enclosed space of the bathroom, and the next moment Michael stood before him, a clipboard still in her hands from… whatever duty he had accidentally called her from.

Gabriel really, _really_ should have stayed in bed that morning.

* * *

A few doors down, Daniel Brown still lay in his own bed. He’d forgotten to set the alarm the previous evening, which would have made him late for work, but that morning it mattered not. 

He wasn’t there anymore, anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Then war broke out in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angels fought back. But he was not strong enough, and they lost their place in heaven."  
> \-- Revelation 12:7-8


	15. Ecclesiastes 12:7 - Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably apologized already in the previous chapter but let me do it again.  
> Sorry.

“What are  _ you _ doing here?”

“What am  _ I  _ doing here? You are the one who just showed up, entirely uninvited--”

“Gabriel  _ called  _ me here, and-- oh, am I supposed to believe you’re here after receiving an RSVP card?”

“Gabriel and I have a  _ deal, _ meaning I can come and go as I please!”

“Liar.”

“That I am, but not over this. I take deals very seriously.”

“Gabriel would never do something as stupid as accepting to make a deal with you!”

“... You really  _ are _ forgetting him, aren’t you?”

“What-- how would  _ you _ know--”

“None of your business.”

Michael trailed off and gave Beelzebub a cold, cold glare. “You shouldn't push me. It was me to cast you down, and--”

“That was then and this is now,” the Lord of the Flies sneered. “You know you cannot touch me until the War starts. I am  _ above  _ you. What was that you said when we had that little discussion over Moses’ corpse?  _ The Lord rebuke you, _ was it? You couldn’t even tell me to my face I was being a pain in the ass. You wanted mommy to do it for you.”

“You were being something  _ worse _ than a pain in the ass, I assure you.”

“I’m the Prince of Hell,” Beelzebub informed her. “I put my Mark on Gabriel because he  _ allowed _ me.” No need to add the little detail that it was that or watching his mortal friend die before his eyes. It would kind of ruin the argument they were trying to make. “Which is more than what you did, I see. You must have Marked him too, or else you would not have been called here when he simply  _ spoke _ of calling you. And I bet you didn’t ask his permission.”

Michael said nothing at first, her mouth pulled in a tight line, and Beelzebub knew they had guessed right. Still, she attempted to deflect. “Don’t you presume to know how we operate. We--”

“Let’s ask him, then. Hey, Gabriel, did you even know they had Mark-- huh. Where is he?”

“Gabriel?” Michael called out, looking around the empty bathroom before taking a few steps towards the door - and rolling her eyes when Beelzebub squeezed through first, though she didn’t comment on that. “Where are you?”

There was a noise from another room, clinking glass and something being poured. Beelzebub had a fairly good guess of what was going on before they even saw Gabriel; judging from her puzzled look, Michael had yet to catch up. 

“... What are you doing?” she asked, watching as Gabriel poured some rather strong-smelling liquid into a glass on the desk. Beelzebub suspected she was not familiar with it but she could, at least, tell it was not water. Their eyes shifted to the clock on the wall. Six thirty in the morning. Not a good going which, in their view, wasn’t a bad going at all.

“At least he’s not screaming,” Michael muttered, probably more to herself than to anyone else, as Gabriel brought the glass of gin to his lips and threw back his head, emptying it in one gulp. He put the glass back down on the desk before he drew in a deep breath, breathed out, and finally turned. 

The first thing Beelzebub noticed was that he was pale as ash. The second was that he was trembling, but he folded his hands in front of him to hide it and straightened himself. 

“Michael,” he said, his voice just a little too shaky to really come across as the polite calm he was probably trying to convey. But yes, at least he wasn’t screaming and hiding behind Beelzebub. They found that just slightly disappointing. 

Michael smiled, if hesitantly. And Beelzebub had  _ never _ seen the archangel Michael hesitate before anything. “Gabriel,” she greeted him back. “It’s good to see you.”

“... I am afraid I cannot return the sentiment.”

The briefest twinge of  _ something _ on Michael’s face, quickly suppressed. If Beelzebub had hoped to see her pained, they were sorely disappointed. Actually, they  _ had _ hoped to see her pained and they  _ were _ sorely disappointed. 

_ She forgot too much about him to care anymore,  _ they thought. _ She wants to, but doesn’t know how or why she ought to.  _

If that was the case, it had to at least bothered, but nothing showed. Instead, Michael folded her hands in front of her - was that a thing archangels did? - and spoke calmly. 

“I understand. What kind of assistance do you need?”

Oh no. This was Not Happening. 

“None that Hell cannot provide,” Beelzebub snapped, scowling up at Michael. “You were called here by mistake.”

Michael barely glanced down. “Perhaps I can start by getting rid of the fly infestation in your home.”

Oh no she  _ didn’t.  _ “We both know you cannot lift a finger on me,” Beelzebub buzzed furiously. Above them, the lights flickered. Gabriel took another shot. “But if you wish to have a go, then I’ll make you regret--”

“Cut it out. Both of you.”

Michael and Beelzebub both turned to look at him; Michael’s expression unreadable, Beelzebub’s nothing short of stunned. Had he gone insane, or had the alcohol gotten to his head that quickly? He’d never  _ dared  _ to presume he could order them around like some underling when he’d been an archangel - what had gotten in his empty head to think he could even  _ think _ of doing so now, that he was a powerless mortal they could crush with a snap of their fingers? They narrowed their eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Beelzebub said. “I think I might have heard you wrong. You get a chance to repeat yourself and convince me I did  _ not _ just hear what I think I heard, because if I did you  _ must  _ be lacking even the most basic sense of self-preservation humans are supposed to--”

“Please.”

Being cut off, even by a polite  _ please, _ was not something Beelzebub was used to or willing to tolerate;  _ first _ they said their piece and  _ then _ others were allowed to plead, possibly for mercy. However this time - this once - they forced themselves to breathe in, breathe out, and speak as calmly as possible.

“We’ll address that once you’re in Hell beneath me,” they said through gritted teeth, entirely ignoring Michael’s glare and muttered protest it was  _ never _ going to happen, like she had a say in it. “Either way, there is no point nor reason to ask Heaven to intervene. If it’s not in Hell--”

“It was you to suggest I try asking them.”

_ Yes, but not with Michael standing right here. This is humiliating. And for Satan’s sake, quit cutting me off before I give your stupid tongue a fifth-degree burn. _

“Asking us what?” Michael spoke before the Lord of the Flies could voice their displeasure and, to their annoyance, Gabriel immediately turned his attention from them to Michael. 

“There is a mortal whose whereabouts I need to know,” he said, his voice remarkably firm. “She may be either in Hell or Heaven, but Hell has been unable to locate her folder--”

“You asked  _ Hell  _ to look something up for you?”

“... I asked Beelzebub specifically.”

“You could have called for us any moment--”

“I did now.”

Michael still seemed stunned, but after a deep breath, she decided to drop the matter. “So-- Hell misplaced her folder?”

A few moments of furious buzzing. “We misplaced nothing! It doesn’t exist!” they snapped, and the light flickered again.

Gabriel took another shot and put the glass down. “I’d appreciate you not doing that. I have just changed the lightbulb--”

The lightbulb shattered. Michael rolled her eyes, and snapped her fingers. The lightbulb put itself back together. 

Then shattered again. Put itself back together. Shattered again. 

“I can do this all day.”

“Do you realize how ridiculous this is?”

“It is evil.”

“It is ludicrous.”

The lightbulb put itself together. Shattered. Put itself together. 

Gabriel took a shot.

* * *

“... Wasn’t Daniel supposed to be starting the shift with us?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Are you serious?”

“Cream! In carbonara! On Christmas Eve of all days! Stab me in the heart, why don’t you!”

“Fabrizio, can you try not being dramatic for-- whatever. Rajiv! Wasn’t Daniel going to start the shift with us today?”

“That’s what the board says.”

Łukasz Wójcik was a good man, but not a  _ saint,  _ and all good men have vices; Łukasz’s own was that he swore. A lot. In all three languages he knew. To be fair, being one forklift operator short right at the beginning of the shift was an excellent reason to curse.  _ “Skurwysyn.” _

“What does  _ that  _ mean?”

“What, speaking with me again all of a sudden?”

“Vai a farti fottere.”

A sigh. “Whatever that means, fair,” Łukasz muttered, reaching for his phone. Maybe he’d overslept, happened to the best of them. He called Daniel’s number. It rang… and rang… and rang… and then the call ended. No reply. 

That was… odd, but maybe he’d forgotten the phone on silent mode. Maybe he was in the shower and couldn’t get to it. Trying to ignore a bad, bad feeling making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, Łukasz selected Gabriel’s number and brought the phone to his ear.

* * *

“Hello?”

“Gabriel, it’s Łukasz. Are you still home?”

Gabriel glanced up at the clock on the wall as, above him, the lightbulb shattered to come together again. Ah, look at that, he was going to be late and he hated being late. Or at least, he hated the thought: he had never, in his entire existence, actually been late for anything. “I’m heading out now, is something the matter?”

“Oh, good. Can you check on Daniel - he’s only a few doors down, no?”

He was; the accommodations their job offered were all in the same building that had once been a hotel. Each of them had their own room and bathroom, plus a small extra room that with some imagination and good space management could pass off as a living room. The shared kitchen, dining room and laundry facilities were downstairs. “He is-- is something the matter?” Gabriel frowned. “He was supposed to start the first shift with you.”

“I know, but he’s not here and he’s not answering the phone. May very well have left it in silent mode, or can’t hear it, you know he sleeps like a log. Can you check before coming in at work?”

“Of course. I will do that,” Gabriel said, and ended the call, not overly concerned. He probably had caught a cold, a few colleagues had before and it had been an absolute nightmare to manage the schedules. Gabriel himself had been able to avoid that special brand of unpleasantness, but he suspected he was likely to succumb before winter was over. He put the phone back in his pocket, sighed, and turned to face the Prince of Hell and Archangel currently having a playground fight, all while managing to both look extremely professional and solemn.

Tempted as he was, he did not take a shot.

“Enough. You’re making me late for work,” he said, causing both of them to turn to him, again, it almost concerning synchronicity. Beelzebub raised both eyebrows, making it clear that they considered his statement to be one of the dumbest things they had ever heard. Michael, on the other hand, nodded in complete understanding. 

“Of course - I won’t keep you,” she said, snapping her fingers and fixing the lightbulb once more. This time, Beelzebub did not shatter it. “Who is this mortal you need us to find?”

It was hard, talking to Michael without trembling; his scars over his shoulder blades ached, and he had to make a conscious effort not to think of when she’d cut his wings off, while the others held him down and he pleaded uselessly for them to stop, for the pain to stop.

_ Don’t go there. Don’t. Focus on what you need to ask. _

“Her name is Alison Brown,” Gabriel finally said. “She was born in Plymouth between 1948 and 1950. I need to know whether she’s in Heaven or Hell - or if her folder can yield any clues as to her current whereabouts.”

Michael nodded. “Seems a simple enough matter. I’ll have someone locate the file for you.”

Beelzebub scoffed. “Spare yourself the work. I’ll get it done first,” they snapped, and before any retort could come they vanished in a burst of fire and sulphur. Michael sighed, and willed the window to open with a wave of her hand. 

“Demons,” she muttered, but her disdain faded when her gaze fell on Gabriel. He liked to think he looked calm and dignified, but his knees felt weak. “... Gabriel, we--”

“I need to go to work,” Gabriel cut her off, his voice dull and distant. She fell silent and finally nodded, expression unreadable. 

“Of course. We will let you know as soon as we have the information you need.”

A crack of thunder, and she was gone. Gabriel breathed out a long sigh, finally relaxing his shoulders; he almost fell into a chair, and he almost took another shot. He did neither, although his tolerance to alcohol  _ had  _ gone up a fair deal and he knew he could take it. 

_ I have work to do. _

It was a reassuring thought, something to hold onto. It was a far cry from the job he used to have, but  _ work _ it was and few things felt as right by him as knowing he had done what was expected of him, and done it well. It made him feel a bit better as he got dressed and walked out, heading down the corridor and then to Daniel’s door. He knocked.

“Daniel? Are you still asleep?” He waited a few moments, but there was nothing - no answer, nor any kind of sound a man would make approaching a door. Gabriel frowned a little, and knocked again. “Are you there?” he called. Still no answer. Ah, he probably already was on his way to work when Łukasz had called. Within minutes he would probably get another call telling him not to worry, he was in… and  _ he _ should get a move on, too. So Gabriel almost,  _ almost _ walked away - but instead he reached for the handle, and pulled it down. The door opened.

_ I keep forgetting doors are meant to be locked, _ Daniel had joked once.  _ Too long without one. _

The concept of locking one’s door before leaving was something Gabriel had to get used to as well - not like anyone would dream of  _ stealing _ in Heaven, now that would be ridiculous - so he couldn’t blame Daniel for it. He pushed the door open, and stepped inside, in the dark. No sound - so either he was out, or he was still sleeping. 

“Daniel?”A few more steps, another door, and his hand found a light switch. There he was, turned on his side under the covers - he must have forgotten to set the alarm. With a chuckle, Gabriel knocked the room’s door. “Hello? Anyone home?”

No answer. He did not stir. He just kept snoring away and-- and-- no, wait, that was wrong. He was not snoring at all. He wasn’t making a sound, he who always snore like a chainsaw. 

“Daniel?” A sudden sense of foreboding gripping his chest, Gabriel called out with a voice he hardly recognized and took a step forward. “Daniel, wake up.”

Nothing. Another step, and he could see his face now, or half of it. Beneath the graying beard he was pale as ash, his jaw slack. The sense of foreboding turned to dread and Gabriel reached out, grabbed his shoulder, tried to shake him. But he was still. He was stiff. He was  _ cold. _

“No!” Gabriel barked it out like an order. “Mortal! Awaken! I command you!”

No answer, of course. He was but a mortal himself; he had no power to challenge death, nor had he ever tried before. It was something that happened to humans, he knew, natural as the turn of the seasons. It has never bothered him, because he had never bothered with humans on a personal level. It shouldn’t bother him now either - had he been able to think logically, he would have told himself that no real damage was done; that Daniel was not  _ gone, _ he had simply moved to another plane of existence. Surely upstairs, because he was a good man, but even if not he could use some find a way to have his soul moved to Heaven. He knew he could.

But right there and then, none of it crossed his mind. There was no logic, no rationality - only  _ grief,  _ old as humanity and yet so new to him, dark and cold, squeezing the air out of his lungs. 

“No. Please. No.” His chest shuddered, his face was wet, and Gabriel reached for his phone with shaking, frantic hands. There may be nothing he could do to undo what was before his eyes but he knew someone who could. And would. 

He prayed he would.

* * *

“... And of course, there should be a garden.”

“Sure there will be. Ever seen a cottage without one?”

“True, true. Plus, it would be a shame not to put my skills to use. I spent years working as a gardener, after all.”

Crowley  _ almost _ said something about it, but Aziraphale looked so pleased at the thought he chose to bite his tongue and say nothing. The painful truth was that Brother Francis had been an awful, awful gardener: you don’t keep a garden lush by being  _ kind  _ to slugs, snails, and various garden pests - regardless the point about kindness towards living creatures you’re trying to make with the boy you believe to be the Antichrist. 

The only reason why the garden had kept flourishing - and Brother Francis got to keep his job with no need for a literal miracle - was that Nanny Ashtoreth had often snuck out at night, after putting Warlock to sleep, to undo any damage and make sure the plants behaved and kept growing well by subjecting them to a healthy regimen of death threats. 

“By the way,” Aziraphale said casually. “It goes without saying that you are  _ not _ going to terrorize our plants the way you did with the Dowlings’.”

Ah. All right. So he  _ knew. _

Normally, he would have protested that method of dealing with his plants had always worked best, but those were going to be  _ their _ plants, and he supposed it was only fair Aziraphale got a say on the matter. Still…

“Fine. I’ll just threaten them… once a week.”

“No.”

“Once a month.”

“Crowley.”

“Either that, or you let me arrange your books by color.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Aren’t we supposed to compromise?”

“Not on this, I won’t.”

“Well, how about--” Crowley began, only to be interrupted by the ringing of Aziraphale’s phone. He sincerely hated being interrupted, especially by an ancient piece of junk like that, but this time he didn’t mind terribly - mostly because he hadn’t yet thought up the rest of the sentence. This would give him some time to.

“I am terribly sorry, we are closed toda-- Gabriel?”

Ah. Never mind that, now he hated it again. He rolled his eyes. “Tell him to shove off and--”

“Gabriel, what-- please, calm down-- who died? Oh. Oh dear. You know I am not supposed… it is frowned upon...” a pause as Aziraphale hesitated, some incoherent yelling from the other side, then a sigh. “Yes, I suppose it can’t be bigger than stopping the Armageddon, point taken. I can try. Only a moment.” He pulled the receiver away from his ear and glanced up at Crowley. “I don't have much experience travelling through phone - would you lead the way?”

He blinked. “What’s going on?”

“You’ll see in a few moments,” Aziraphale said, and reached to grab his sleeve; Crowley sighed, but he did what was asked of him - he got himself into the phone, taking Aziraphale with him, leading him. It was a bit harder to pull off than it would be when travelling between two landlines, but he could manage.

Moments later they both materialized in a bedroom some seventy miles away, and Aziraphale let go of his sleeve. 

“So, what the Heaven is this all abou--” Crowley began, only to trail off when his brain took in what he was seeing - Gabriel on his knees next to a bed, face wet with what he suspected was not rain, and on the bed a human he’d seen before, when Gabriel had taken him to buy him a suit for a job interview Crowley had gotten him. 

Or at least, the  _ body _ was on the bed. Mr. Daniel Brown had, very obviously, moved on to greener pastures. Or to scorched-back ones, depending on which way his soul went. 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel was choking out, standing up again and wiping his face. He was clearly trying to sound collected, and failing miserably at it. “You can bring him back.”

“I can try,” Aziraphale said, putting a hand on Gabriel’s arm before he stepped towards the man on the bed. Gabriel stepped back to give him space, giving no sign to have noticed Crowley’s presence at all. It would have been the right moment for a biting comment, but Crowley couldn’t think of any, nor was he in the mood. Not too long ago, he’d felt real grief for the first time, too. 

_ I lost my best friend. _

In the end, he said nothing and watched as said friend - if that was the right term for him - leaned down, rested a hand on the man’s head, closed his eyes, and murmured something.

Nothing happened.

“... I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said somberly, pulling back his hand. The look he gave Gabriel was deeply saddened. “It’s too late, his passing has already been processed. I can’t bring him back.”

Gabriel’s knees seemed to fold, and he Crowley instinctively caught him before he found himself on the floor. “Hey, what gives? You know he’s not really  _ gone,  _ he’s got to be either in Heav--”

“No, no, no, no,” Gabriel choked out, limp in his grasp as Crowley dragged him on the closest chair and dropped him in it. He burrowed his face in his hands. “You don’t  _ understand,  _ he was looking for someone, I was going to find her, I was almost-- if I’d turned to Heaven earlier--”

Crowley had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but he supposed it didn’t matter. “Don’t think in if-onlys. Really. It’s a bad idea.”

A shaky breath. “It hurts. I don’t understand.”

“It’s grief,” Aziraphale replied, crouching in front of the chair. For a moment, Crowley saw him as he’d seen him long ago - Milan, 1630, comforting people who’d lost family and friends to a plague he’d been powerless to miracle away. Crowley, too, could do nothing. “Don’t try to fight it. Weather it. It will pass, humans deal with it all the time.”

Another shuddering breath, and Gabriel pulled his hands away. He looked at Aziraphale, pained and bewildered in equal measure. “They don’t  _ know _ that they’re not gone,” he rasped. “Humans. I know, but they don’t.”

“No. Most hope they’re not, others believe it, but no one alive knows it for certain.”

“How do they deal? How do they  _ weather _ it? I _know_ there is eternity beyond death, and it’s still-- it’s--”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t know. They just do it. They’re like that.”

Another shaky breath, and Gabriel wiped his eyes with a shaky hand. “I-- I need to call work, tell them-- tell the others, and-- or-- who do I call?” he looked up, utterly lost. “What do I do?”

“One thing at a time,” Aziraphale reassured him, and glanced at Crowley in a mute request. He nodded and, with a snap of his fingers, he put time on hold. Just for a bit. 

Sometimes you just need some  _ time _ to mourn, and giving him just that cost him nothing.

* * *

“So, what happened?”

“Something about the heart. It just-- I don’t know. It stopped.”

“Ah, yes. They do that sometimes. One of many design flaws in God’s pet project.”

A brief silence followed. Beelzebub had found Gabriel sitting on the same bench as Christmas Eve by the docks, wrapped in a coat and scarf, holding a cup of coffee in both hands, staring at nothing. The coffee had long since gone cold.

The Lord of the Flies suspected they would get no reaction whatsoever if they set his scarf on fire. They slid down from the backrest to sit next to him, arms crossed over their chest, looking towards the horizon. “... When’s the funeral?”

“I don’t know. Not for a while. They took him to a place called-- I forget.”

“Mortuary?”

“Yes, that. They said they would try to get in touch with his next of kin, but…” A sigh. “I doubt they will find any, if Hell could not.”

That had rather stung, really, having to return to admit that there really was  _ no trace  _ of this Alison Brown from Plymouth in Hell’s records. Now they were not sure whether they hoped Heaven would find something or not; if they did, they would be pissed because that would be humiliating. If they didn’t, they would be pissed because they had no idea what was going on and hated it. For Satan’s sake, how had they gotten into such an all-around annoying situa--

A long, blood-curdling scream cut off their thoughts. Gabriel barely flinched, and turned to look at Beelzebub as they reached into their pocket to take out their phone. “A text,” they muttered, and went to check. A text from Dagon, to be precise. “... Well. If it helps at all, your friend is not in Hell.”

“Oh,” Gabriel said. His flat expression cracked a moment, the barest hint of a smile curling his lips. “Well, that’s-- I’m glad. Thank you for asking on my behalf.”

“Don’t mention it. I mean it, it would get me in trouble or at the very least make me a laughing stock,” Beelzebub huffed, and the sound Gabriel made almost resembled a chuckle. 

“Maybe he has already found his sister. She might turn out to be in Heaven, too.”

“That would be such a sweet ending, I think I may vomit,” was the flat reply. This time, the sound that left Gabriel was  _ definitely _ that of a weak chuckle. On a normal day, Beelzebub would have taken it as mockery and punished it accordingly. 

That one time, they decided to let it slide.

* * *

“Nothing? Are you certain?”

“Yes, absolutely certain. We searched the entire archive.”

“It cannot be. Alison Brown, born in Plymouth--”

“Between 1948 and 1950. I guarantee, we have looked. Our filing system if second to none. There is nothing about her, which means--”

“There was never a such person on Earth.”

“Correct. Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

“... Not for now. You may go, thank you.” As the angel left, Michael sat back at her desk, utterly confused. For someone who’d never really experienced it in eons, confusion was becoming an annoyingly constant companion, but she couldn’t help it. 

What she’d just heard made no sense. It made no sense at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it."  
> \-- Ecclesiastes 12:7


	16. Genesis 4:9 - Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uncomfortable realization time? Uncomfortable realization time.   
> But at least this supernatural version of _Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego_ is drawing to a close.

For a time after the War, Gabriel - as well as everyone else, apparently - failed to truly realize what was happening.

Part of the reason, he supposed, was that they were all busier than they’d ever been. The war had been exhausting but, once it was over - the rebels cast down, out of paradise, away from God - they had very little time to rest. There was so much to do, so much to fix: entire galaxies had been turned to dust as the War raged on, and the Heavenly host had been reduced by half. 

Which translated to a lot of work… and very little desire to think of what had become of the  _ other _ half of them, for a lot of excellent reasons. 

Anger was one, of course. How  _ dare _ they turn against God, against  _ them?  _ How dare they believe they were above their creator, and throw everything in such chaos? They deserved their punishment, certainly, and they shouldn't waste time thinking of them. 

Another reason was  _ pain. _ Few of them would acknowledge it - surely they were not  _ supposed _ to grieve the loss of traitors - but it was _ there _ , a constant ache previously unknown, worse even than the sting of betrayal. They had lost half their brethren, after all, corrupted beyond salvation, they who’d never known loss before. They weren’t  _ meant _ to know loss, not built to withstand it.

But the busier they kept themselves the less they thought of the Fallen, and the less they thought of the Fallen the easier it became to bear. So they chose, collectively,  _ not _ to think of them at all.

Until the day Gabriel tried to, and found that  _ he could not.  _ Names, faces and ranks he’d known as well as his own were beyond his grasp, or at least the vast majority of them. There was a name he could recall, a name he clung to. 

_ Ba’al. _

He didn’t remember their face, nor their rank, or much of anything about them at all, and yet the last scraps of a memory remained, lingering stubbornly--   
_ Ba’al was stubborn, too _   
\-- and refusing to fade away. 

Part of him wanted to hold onto those memories, of course; try to remember the Ba’al he’d known and cared for, before he was lost along with countless others. Only that it was a small part of him, somewhere behind his left knee, while the  _ rest _ was desperate to be rid of them.

_ “I tried to warn you.” _

_ “Join our cause.” _

_ “Abandon this folly!” _

_ "Next time you cross my path, I shall take you down." _

Certainly, if the memories were fading it had to be God’s will, and he had no reason no intention to defy it. So he let it happen, allowing himself relief before he carried on with his duties, determined as ever to serve God and the Great Plan. They knew there had been a War, of course; they had vague recollections of the fight, clear memories of the victory. 

As time passed, they learned to know their adversaries - the demons the Fallen had become, not the same beings anymore - and it was easy, so very easy, to see them as the enemies and nothing more. 

Knowledge of the fact they had once been part of them meant little, with no real memory of it; no angel regretted forgetting them, or at least none of them said as much aloud.

In Heaven, many things go unsaid.

* * *

“Archangel Gabriel asked you to find Alison.”

“Yes. He did personally request we seek your sister, and as it is proving more difficult than expected we would appreciate your cooperation--”

_ “Archangel fucking Gabriel.” _

That, Uriel thought, was the reason why no high-ranking angel had ever willingly taken on duties in the lower spheres of Heaven, where good mortals resided after death. Dead or not, virtuous or not, they were still humans. And humans could be… unnecessarily crude.

“Such language is entirely uncalled for in Heaven, and I’d appreciate you minding it,” she said. Had she remembered that Gabriel had referred to himself precisely that way not too long ago, she might have thought otherwise… but she did not, in fact, remember that. 

The formerly-mortal, now eternal soul Daniel Brown didn’t even seem to hear her: he just rubbed his face and turned to look, wide-eyed, at the woman beside him. His wife - Liv, he called her. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. 

Uriel frowned. “There is no need to involve him. As I was saying--”

“It was really the Archangel Gabriel! The guy from the Bible! And-- shit, that song-- Sting-- he got all weird listening to it, I didn’t-- I had no idea--!”

Having been dead and in Heaven for several years now, said wife seemed less surprised by the notion of an Archangel walking on Earth with a dislike for Sting. She patted his shoulder. 

“I heard you, darling. Mind your pressure.”

“Liv, we’re  _ dead. _ I just-- I thought he was just fucking around!”

_ “Mr. Brown!” _ Uriel protested. “Archangels - even former ones - do not… do that,” she muttered, despite not actually remembering whether or not Gabriel did have the habit to, quote,  _ fuck around. _ She would just assume he did not, as it would be beneath his status.

Since when was it normal for a human soul to speak like that in front of an angel, anyway? Uriel’s experience in dealing with humans was rather limited - on top of her mind she had told a fellow named Noah that rain was coming, and checked Egypt’s doors for lamb blood on one more memorable occasion - but she was rather sure they used to be more polite than… that.

“How did he even-- how do you become a  _ former  _ Archangel?”

“... His employment was terminated.”

“Ah. All right, that’s… pretty much what he said. That he was cast down - I thought he meant he’d been sacked, you know, walked out with his stuff in a cardboard box or something.”

Was Gabriel given a cardboard box prior to being cast out? Uriel didn’t quite remember, so she decided not to remark on that. “Well, either way, what I am here to talk about is your--”

“I thought he was just drunk. I mean, he  _ was _ , but what he said -  _ off with his wings _ \- was… real?”

It was, of course. Uriel knew Gabriel’s wings had been torn off by Michael while she and Sandalphon held him down, but only because they had written it down and talked about it. She had no memory of the event itself. “I am afraid this is a metter I cannot discuss. Now--”

“Why cast him out?” Daniel Brown asked, refusing to drop the matter. “What did he even do?”

_ Nothing we did not do as well, _ Uriel thought, but did not answer. In the back of her mind, a tiny voice murmured that maybe he  _ had _ done something to deserve it - he  _ must _ have done something to deserve it. It was the only thing that made sense. They had just… forgotten it. 

“... What he did or did not do is not for me to discuss, much less with you,” she finally said, and straightened herself. “Now, Mr. Brown, about your sister…”

* * *

“... So you couldn’t find anything.”

“Unfortunately not, but we’re not giving up just yet. We will find out where she is. Uriel went to speak with the mortal, to see if he can tell her anything of use.” 

Michael’s voice was collected, perfectly professional. Sitting across the table with a mug of hot coffee in his hands - he’d almost offered Michael some, before remembering that with one notable exception angels did not, in fact, consume human food or drinks - Gabriel nodded.

“I see. How… how is he?” he asked, gaining himself a slightly confused look. 

“Well, I have not met him, but-- he’s in Heaven. Certainly he’s doing well.”

Ah, of course. How could anyone possibly be in Heaven and  _ not _ be doing well? Beyond its gates, there was everything a soul could possibly ask for… but maybe not  _ everyone.  _ Their loved ones may be in Hell, or… wherever in creation Alison Brown even  _ was. _

Is it really paradise if those you care about are missing? He’d never wondered such a thing until now, and suddenly he found he couldn’t stop thinking about it. “He had a wife,” Gabriel found himself saying, looking up. Seeing Michael made the scars on his back ache, but his hands were not shaking anymore and his voice was firm. “She died some ten years ago. Is she there?”

To his relief, Michael nodded. “Yes, I did see that on his papers. He has been reunited with her.”

“Ah. That’s-- good. He missed her a lot.” It should have been enough, knowing he was well, but somehow it was not. He was well, yes, but he was not  _ there.  _ Gabriel had never known an absence could take up so much space, and make it so empty.

There was a silence, a bit too long not to be awkward. Gabriel focused on Michael’s face, on the way she avoided his gaze as she busied herself with her notes on the case. It was almost eerie; Michael had never before, since the very beginning of everything, averted her gaze from anyone but God. As far as he could remember, at least: there were holes, of course, where memories relating to any of the Fallen had simply… gone. 

_ Why did we forget the Fallen? Why am I recalling things now that I could not before? _

The thought was sudden, and it caused Gabriel to frown. Something else whispered in the back of his mind, a voice that had spoken to him in his dreams and which, he suspected, belonged to a certain Prince of Hell. 

_ They will forget you. Maybe they already did. They have all forgotten you. Forget them, too.  _

“... Gabriel? Is something the matter?” Michael’s voice caused Gabriel to recoil. He realized only then he’d been staring for entirely too long, eyes wide and mouth agape, probably looking quite foolish. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say it was nothing, that she may go.

What actually left him was a  _ question.  _ “How much do you remember about me, Michael?”

It struck a nerve, Gabriel could tell: Michael stiffened, pressed her lips, and was quite a few moments “... I do know who you are,” she replied, and stood. “I ought to go back--”

“But you’re forgetting  _ me, _ aren’t you?”

Another pause, then a sigh. “We won’t. We have notes about you to-- remind ourselves.”

The notion he was being forgotten about in Heaven hit him hard, but until not too long ago a part of him - the part that every night, as he dreamed, cried and screamed and begged uselessly for his wings not to be torn out - for he would at least have found some relief in the fact those who’d cast him out would have no reason to seek him out ever again. 

Now, however, there was no relief to mitigate the hurt but rather something else - confusion and something warm in his chest that he dared not name. “Notes to remind yourselves?”

A nod. “So that we don’t entirely forget you.”

“... Why?”

“No one knows. We forgot the Fallen, of course, but this is different. You are no demon, and--”

“No, I mean-- why fight it?” Gabriel cut her off. “If it’s divine will that you forget the Fallen--”

“You are not Fallen, Gabriel,” Michael cut him off right back, frowning. “You were--”

“Cast out,” he cut her off, again. “Some difference.”

“We refuse to forget you.”

“If God wills it--”

“We don’t  _ know _ if God wills it,” Michael retorted, cutting him off again. It was turning into a habit.

“Everything happens because God wills it,” Gabriel replied, but his voice lacked conviction. Something whispered in his mind that perhaps - just perhaps - forgetting the fallen had less to do with God’s will and more to do with their need to take the path of least resistance, to allow themselves no doubts or regrets that might weaken their faith in God’s plan.

Aziraphale had been no exception then, but he was now. Aziraphale, who had defied the Great Plan. Who had strayed from the path, allowed himself doubt, and… remembered him well.

_ “Gone native,”  _ they had muttered. More human than celestial, trading a world of easy order and certainty with chaos, second-guessing, twisted paths shrouded in mist.

_ “How will I know I’m doing the right things?” _

_ “You won’t,”  _ Metatron had said.

_ “You figure it out, Gabe,” _ the demon Crowley had sneered.  _ “It’s the gift of free will.” _

A long breath, and Gabriel stood, looking at Michael in the eye. “Was it hard?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “Carrying out the order to cast me out.”

She avoided his gaze. “... The hardest thing I ever had to do. It haunts me. Haunts  _ all _ of us.”

“You cast out many of the rebels.”

“That was different. They rebelled - you were one of us.”

“... They were part of us, too.”

“They  _ rebelled. _ You were punished for something we all took part to,” Michael almost snapped, finally looking back at him again. “You were trying to do the right thing.”

“Good intentions. What was it that paves the road to Hell again?”

A scowl. “This is ridiculous. I  _ know _ you’re nothing like the Fallen we--”

“How would you? You don’t  _ remember _ what they were like. None of us did. It was easier not to.”

_ Is it really paradise if those you care about are missing? _

_ You can’t miss someone you don’t remember. _

“What…?”

“Could you - or Uriel, or Sandalphon or anyone else - carry on with your duties as easily if you thought of the  _ enemy _ the way you think of me?”

For several moments, Michael stared. Then she spoke slowly, as though letting the words sink in as she uttered them. “... You don’t think it was God to will us to forget,” she said. “You think it was our own doing. Then with the Fallen, and now with you.”

Gabriel nodded. “The path of least resistance. No reason to doubt. Nothing to regret.”

Michael slowly sat. She looked… lost. That was new. “I can’t be. We don’t  _ want _ to forget you.”

“... I know. But old habits are hard to die,” Gabriel replied, and managed a smile, sitting as well. His hands went back to the cooling mug of coffee. “Believe me, I found out the hard way.”

* * *

It wasn’t often that Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, asked to view the file of a mortal. It was even more unusual when said mortal was already deceased and in Heaven; the few times it had happened, it had been because they believed there was a chance a mistake had been made and that the soul was deserving of Hell. In  _ very _ few occasions - Dagon could count them on one hand, and a mutilated one at that - they had even won that argument with the Archangel that wasn’t an angel anymore. 

But judging from Beelzebub’s expression as they stared at the file, sprawled on their throne, that probably wouldn’t be the case. They were glaring at it as though they were trying to make it catch fire with the sheer force of will - which happened just now, as the folder burst in flames. The Prince of Hell extinguished them with an impatient wave of their hand and kept reading. The scowl kept deepening.

As the Lord of the Files, Dagon couldn’t stand by and watch a… well, a  _ file _ risk being destroyed in a fit of anger. “... Perhaps I can help, my Lord. Is there any information you’re looking for?”

“Yes. Anything about this mortal’s sister,” they snapped, turning the pages. “Anything of use.”

“If both our men and Heaven confirmed there is no file to be found about her, then perhaps she really never exist-- huh. My Lord?”

No answer. Lord Beelzebub - Prince of Hell, Lord of the Flies and so forth - had stilled entirely staring at the file, the scowl replaced by a stunned expression that was, in turn, slowly replaced by something else.  _ Comprehension. _

“... Lord Beelzebu--” Dagon began, and trailed off with a wince when the Prince of Hell tore off one page and let the rest of the folder fall unceremoniously on the ground. A sudden flare of fire, a cloud of sulphur, and they were gone - leaving yet another scorch mark on their throne and a smoldering pile of ash where the folder containing an accurate list of Daniel Brown’s sins had been only moments earlier.

* * *

"GABRIEL!"

The mug of hot cocoa Gabriel had just picked up - a gift from Aziraphale, that cocoa, and he had to admit it was growing on him as a substitute for the fifth mug of coffee - fell from his hands to shatter on the floor, splattering hot liquid across his bare shins. He yelped, both at the sting and out of surprise, heart jumping somewhere in his throat. A ball of fire suddenly erupting before you while someone bellows your name will do that. 

"Jesus Christ!"

"No, it's me-- don't you  _ ever _ insult me like that again," Beelzebub said, scowling, and slapped something down on the kitchen counter - a piece of parchment burnt at the edges. "I know why we couldn't find the mortal's sister."

Gabriel looked back, stunned, the scowl gone and the sting already in the back of his mind. "You do? How? What did you find out?"

"He never had a sister."

That... made no sense. "Are you sure? Daniel said… but why? Why would he lie--"

"He didn't lie. He just  _ thought _ he had one."

"... I'm afraid I'm not following. Are you telling me he hallucinated her, or--" Gabriel began, only to trail off when Beelzebub quite literally slapped him with the piece of parchment. 

"Shut your mouth and just read this, idiot. Daniel Brown’s sins. Well, the relevant part.”

He did shut his mouth, and he did read. It was indeed a list of sins - a young boy’s sins, small things, irrelevant things -  _ lied to his mother over a broken window, copied his math homework, chased pigeons _ \- up to one that was bolded and underlined, a serious sin for that young age. Gabriel read it, and his eyes widened. He read it again, just to be sure, mouth falling open.

_ Homophobia, hateful speech and rejection of his brother. _

For a few moments, Gabriel stared. He suddenly felt… rather stupid for not thinking of that possibility. It made so much  _ sense,  _ now that the key piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. Daniel had  _ thought _ he had a sister; what he truly had was a  _ brother  _ who hadn’t stuck around to make him aware of the mix-up.

_ Daniel never knew. He was looking for someone who only exists in his memories. _

“... His name is no longer Alison Brown,” Gabriel muttered, looking up. “That explains everything. But… shouldn’t former names remain on record?”

“Former names, yes.  _ Deadnames, _ no. Those vanish from the records the second they are abandoned - we have  _ standards, _ you know,” Beelzebub said, looking slightly offended. “It’s the same in Heaven, I assume? They couldn’t find any records of this Alison, either. We were searching for a mortal  _ woman, _ after all, while we should have been looking for a man all along.”

“Ah-- right, yes. Yes, it is,” Gabriel said, and looked down again. It had been him, after all, to insist that the forms matched in Heaven and Hell. “All right, this is… this is something.”

“Just something? This changes everything.”

“We still don’t know his name, though, and--”

“The surname might have stayed the same. I shall task Dagon to search the archive for every man born in Plymouth in the time frame you provided whose surname was Brown.”

“... I understand it is a common surname.”

“No matter. We’ll find him, so he can know his stupid brother was sorry, get his stupid closure, go to his stupid funeral if he wants, and you can get your stupid conscience to shut up.”

That seemed… a solid plan, Gabriel supposed, at least on account of being the only possible plan. He smiled. “That would be very kind of yo-- ow!”

“If you know what’s good for you, you will not  _ dare _ finish that sentence.”

“Right, right. My apologies,” Gabriel muttered, rubbing his arm. “Oww, that hurt.”

“Good,” Beelzebub replied, sitting on the table. “For the record, I am obviously not doing this for free - let alone out of kindness,” they spat out the word like it left a rotten taste in their mouth. “I still expect you to hold your half of the bargain. Speaking of which, was there  _ any _ progress?”

“I… well… the thing is...”

_ “I tried to warn you.” _

_ “Join our cause.” _

_ “Abandon this folly!” _

_ You can’t miss someone you don’t remember. _

Ah, but would bringing back the memories be the wise thing to do? It was a can of worms Gabriel wasn’t sure he was ready to open, a truth he wasn’t sure he was ready to acknowledge. Would it not be easier to let the sleeping dogs lie? Take the path of least resistance once more, as he’d always done, letting all uncomfortable thoughts sink into oblivion before they could breed doubt in his mind?

_ Old habits are hard to die. _

“... All right, I’ll bite. What’s with the face journey?”

Gabriel recoiled, looking up. Somehow, he’d managed to pretty much forget that the Lord of the Flies just so happened to be sitting on his table. “Huh?”

“You changed expression six times in less than twenty seconds, and each one was dumber than the one before. What’s going on?”

“Ah, er-- nothing. Nothing at all.”

Somehow, Gabriel suspected that was not the most convincing lie he ever told. To be entirely fair, he had… very little experience telling straightforward lies. At most, he would simply… omit information that wasn’t strictly necessary. Or tell a lie that wasn’t even a lie, because the person he was speaking with knew exactly how things really were

_ I'm sure there's a perfectly innocent explanation. _

_ Would you have any objection to me following this up using back channels? _

_ There are no back channels, Michael. _

Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed. “You  _ are _ going to hold your half of the bargain, are you not?” they buzzed, a handful of different threatening notes to their voice.

Gabriel held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Of course, of course! I just-- apologies. There has been a lot going on, and--” he cleared his throat. “I will keep my word,” he added, trying to to evaluate whether trying to lie to the Prince of Hell was a wise option - or even an option at all.

At least for the time being, however, it seemed to work: Beelzebub nodded, placated.

“Very well. I’ll get to the bottom of this, and  _ then _ I will expect you to keep your word. And if you so much  _ think _ of taking it back--” a snap of their fingers, a burst of flames, and they were gone. Gabriel wasn’t sure whether the fire was meant to be a threat or simply their normal way to leave, but he supposed it was probably both. 

Well, decision time was delayed, at least.

With a sigh, Gabriel looked back down at the piece of parchment Beelzebub had brought him, read it over again, and finally put it down. He wondered what Daniel would think once he knew. All those years looking for a sister he rejected, without knowing that the person he remembered was no more - maybe had never been. Gabriel would find his brother for him, but it wouldn’t be the person Daniel thought he was. Then again, after a lifetime apart, he would have found himself facing a stranger either way. Unlike angels, who always remained true to themselves, a notable exception aside and Fallen notwithstanding, human beings changed. That, he’d learned.

Would Daniel be happy to meet his brother? Or would he be disappointed? Gabriel wasn’t even certain Daniel’s brother would want to be found, that he would want to come to his funeral at all. Maybe he’d burned all bridges behind him, and had no intention to waste time on someone who rejected him and whom he only remembered as an angry boy. It had been so long since they last saw each other.

_ “I know you,” _ he’d said once to a Virtue known as Ba’al.

_ “No,” _ they had replied.  _ “You do not.” _

Why bring back those memories? Why now? There was no point to it, nothing it could possibly change. What if there had been someone named Ba’al, a long time ago, whom he’d cared for deeply? What if they had cared for him? That was then and this was now. Ba’al the Virtue was no more, and neither was Gabriel the Archangel. 

They were not the same beings anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Okay, so I lied. It wasn't _Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego_. It was _Where's Wally_ all along.)
> 
> Then the Lord said to Cain, “Where is Abel, your brother?” He said, “I do not know; am I my brother’s keeper?”  
> \-- Genesis 4:9


	17. Romans 13:4 - Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to re-live some trauma, but it's for a good cause. Kinda.

“You think we forgot the Fallen - and we’re forgetting Gabriel - because _we,_ not God, willed it? ”

“That’s what Gabriel believes. I think he might be onto something.”

“It makes no sense.” Uriel’s voice was sharp as glass, causing Sandalphon to wince. “We never  _ wanted _ to forget him. We’re doing all we can to remember what he was like before--”

“Yes. Before,” Michael remarked, her voice calm, hands folded on the desk. “But there is something we’ve all been trying to keep out of our minds, isn’t there?”

Her words were met with a few moments of silence. Uriel worked her jaw, and Sandalphon looked down at the deks. Michael didn’t say explicitly what it was that they had gladly pushed out of their minds, but she didn’t need to. They all knew.

And who could blame them? They had to visit bloody punishment over someone who’d been by their side since the beginning of time, for a crime they had all been part of.

“Of course we’ve been trying to keep it out of our--” Uriel began, only to trail off when realization hit her. Her expression turned to surprise at first, then she slowly nodded. “... Thinking of Gabriel means thinking of what we did. Is that what you're getting at?”

“Yes. It was the first thing we wished to forget about, but we cannot truly do that without forgetting Gabriel. We have been trying to recall the comfortable things, but perhaps that is the root of the problem. We cannot pick and choose. So,” she Michael said, learning forward, “if we give it a try, how much  _ can  _ we remember of that day?”

As it turned out, more than they’d have liked.

* * *

When Metatron’s words fade - the order given, his presence no longer required - there are a few moments of complete stillness and silence. Nothing more than  _ moments, _ because when angels are given orders from God they act upon them without discussion, without voicing displeasure or astonishment or disagreement. 

_ He attempted to take God’s judgment upon himself. A crime born of pride. Seize him. _

It is not in their nature to  _ disagree _ with God, or else they would be among the Fallen. Displeasure was ignored, astonishment swallowed. No question was uttered upon hearing Metatron’s orders, any doubts pushed in the back of their mind; they did seize Gabriel, and he was too astonished to even try to protest, to question, to defend himself. He remained in their grasp and looked up to Metatron, as they all did, to hear his next words.

_ God commands that the one known as Archangel Gabriel is stripped of his wings with steel and blood, and cast down on Earth, a mortal among mortals, as punishment for his arrogance. You shall carry it out, here and now. _

Gabriel’s sentence was uttered in deafening silence, and Metatron did not stay to see it carried out: he left, with the certainty only the Voice of God can have that the order will be obeyed.

And it will be. When God commands something, angels must see that Their will is done.

“There-- there must be a mistake,” Gabriel breaks the silence, his voice several octaves higher than usual. He looks back at them with wide eyes, lost, scared, reeling. Their expression remains stony in a supreme effort of will, because obedience may be their nature but oh, something within them screams against this task they have been ordered to carry out, lashing out like a beast throwing itself at the bars of its cage. 

But the cage doesn’t so much rattle. Their expressions remain even.

“God makes no mistakes,” Uriel says. 

He turns to look at her as though she slapped him.  “But I-- the Great Plan-- we all--”

_ We all did this,  _ he means to say, but his voice fades. Sandalphon’s hand squeezes Gabriel’s forearm in a gesture that means to reassure more than restrain, but which does both. 

“We’ll do as God asks. But we will make it quick, Gabriel.” 

Michael steps forward, holding up her hand; a burst of electricity, and there is a sword in her grip. It has been a long time since she last held it - last time she sheated it was in Rome in  590 AD, after chasing off Pestilence - but she holds it with practiced ease.  Her weapon of choice, since the War - they each had one.  A sword for her and Uriel, a bow for Sandalphon, and Gabriel had a--

_ “No!”  _

A surge of power, sustained by pure terror, and Uriel and Sandalphon are thrown back; a crackle, and Gabriel is holding up something, too, taking a step back. His spear. An attempt at defending himself, desperate as it is futile.

It has been a very long time since he last raised the spear over someone he held dear, even if he doesn’t remember it at present. When it last happened, he was unable to land a blow. He doesn’t land one now, either, because Michael is faster - ever the warrior. A clang of metal, a flash of light, and Gabriel’s spear falls in two pieces which shatter on the floor. Uriel and Sandalphon are on him before he can try to flee and then he’s pinned on the ground, overpowered, screaming and begging and knowing full well his cries are for nothing. 

Above him, Michael lifts the hand that is not holding the sword; Gabriel’s wings, which like everyone else’s are usually tucked away in a different plane of existence for convenience’s sake, unfold from his back - blinding white, the primary feathers barely tinged with purple. 

He beats them desperately, as though trying to take flight, but Uriel and Sandalphon are gripping him too firmly. Michael tightens her grip on the sword’s handle. “Be still,” she says. 

“No no no no  _ no,  _ please--”

“You’ll make it easier, Gabriel. Please, be still.”

He’s not still. He struggles, he writhes, but it is useless; all he can do is strain against their grasp, against Michael’s weight on, and scream. There are words at first, calling out for them to stop -  _ “Michael, please! Uriel-- Sandalphon-- no, no, no, please please--” _ \- but then Michael puts her sword to use, and they turn to wordless howls echoing across all the spheres of Heaven. 

There is no blood at first, because angels do not bleed. Then suddenly it is  _ everywhere, _ staining feathers red, running over Gabriel’s back, pooling on the previously unblemished white floor; by the time the deed is done, everyone’s hands are coated in blood and Gabriel’s screams have turned into unintelligible noises, hysterical sobs that make his bloodied back shudder. 

When Uriel and Sandalphon let go of him - _ “It’s over, it’s all over, it’s done”  _ \- Gabriel doesn’t try to rise. He remains on the floor, face pressed on the floor, limp and motionless if not for his sobs, the gaping wounds over his shoulder blades plain for all of them to see. His sentence, carried out as God willed it, with steel and blood.

_ And God saw that it was good. _

A long sigh, and Sandalphon raises a hand in silence, willing the wounds to close and heal, but they do not. They remain open, bleeding, and God must be willing this too. For what reason they cannot imagine, nor they dare try to. Yet.

They miracle some clothes on him, the one kindness they can use him, and he is cast down as ordered. As he falls, the whisper -  _ “We didn't want to do this, Gabriel” _ \- follows him, but he doesn’t hear it.

For a time, he’s aware of nothing but pain.

* * *

_ It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts. _

It was the only thing going on in Gabriel’s mind as he tossed around in his bed, or at least it was loud enough to drown out anything else that might be possibly going on in that empty head of his. So much for trying to find out if he was remembering  _ something _ from before the Fall, Beelzebub thought with a snort, pulling their hand away from Gabriel’s forehead. 

It was sticky with sweat. Gross, but not enough to really bother the Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, whose usual appearance when not on Earth included open sores across the face. What  _ did  _ bother them was that the nightmare was too  _ loud _ to let them search Gabriel’s mind for any relevant memories involving them, as they had planned to do. 

All right, maybe they hadn’t precisely planned for it; it was more of a sudden idea. Beelzebub had appeared in Gabriel’s apartment in the middle of the night, having entirely forgotten that humans needed sleep - it seemed a dreadful waste of time, but they couldn’t function without it and Gabriel was of little use as things were - only to find him tossing and turning in the bed, sheets bunched around his ankles, face covered in sweat.

Peeking into his mind to see if he was dreaming of something relevant to their questions was a perfectly logical course of action, but what Beelzebub had found themselves looking at were not memories from before the Fall. At least, not before  _ their  _ fall.

Michael had done a number of him, but they had long since learned not to expect anything less from her. She was powerful as she was dangerous, which would have made her an excellent asset for Hell; certainly more useful than the whimpering lump on the bed before them, his thoughts so loud they filled the room without Beelzebub even trying to listen in.

_ Please please I’m sorry whatever I did wrong I am so sorry please stop it hurts it hurts it-- _

Giving him a different dream, or no dreams at all, would have been easy for the Prince of Hell; however it would be a kindness, and they did not do kindness, let alone when angry. Because while they showed nothing right there and then, they were absolutely  _ furious  _ \- at God for being such a hypocrite, at their damn angels for obeying without question, for maiming Gabriel the way they had.  _ Hurting him  _ the way they had. 

_ How dare they. He fell from Heaven, he is meant to take his place in Hell beneath me, how  _ dare  _ they damage what is mine. How dare they make him bleed. How dare they make him scream. _

Beelzebub ground their teeth, feeling a strong urge to wring some archangel neck. However, as there were none in sight - only a mortal who used to be one - they sighed, and snapped their fingers. A small waterfall fell from thin air onto Gabriel’s bed, causing him to bolt upright, blinking and sputtering. Confused, but awake. No longer trapped in a nightmare.

“Good morning,” Beelzebub droned, with the voice of someone who doesn’t really think there is anything good about that particular morning, or any morning at all. Gabriel blinked again, squinted to see them in the dim moonlight coming from the window, and groaned, dropping his head on the sodden pillow. 

“It’s  _ night, _ Ba’al.”

“It’s called three in the  _ morning, _ idiot, and--” the Lord of the Flies trailed off, brain catching up with the words that had just left Gabriel’s mouth. They frowned, and buzzed furiously. “What have you  _ called _ me?”

“Huh?” Gabriel blinked again, looking all the world like an especially dumb owl at midday, face scratchy with stubble and hair all over the place. “Your name, how else--” he trailed off, eyes widening, brain finally catching up with what he’d said. Took him a while. “I mean-- Beelzebub,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “My apologies.”

A long breath that sounded much like a hiss, and Beelzebub let most if their anger go. After all, they had no reason to be bothered by a foolish mistake coming out of a fool’s mouth. There was no reason why hearing that name  _ should  _ bother them, so they chose not to let it happen.

Or tried to. They still were, at least, mildly annoyed. They chose to express that annoyance with a scoff. “You  _ ought  _ to refer to me as your Lord. You may consider it practice for when I claim your soul, as you know will happen. On an unrelated note, are humans not supposed to have an attire meant specifically for lying in the dark and hallucinating for several hours?”

A sigh, and Gabriel sat up, brushing back his wet hair before he reached to turn on the bedside lamp. A couple of flies immediately went buzzing around it, attracted by the light, while Gabriel used the sheets to dry off his face and bare chest.

“It is called _pajamas_ and it’s in the laundry basket,” Gabriel muttered, tossing back the damp sheets and looking at them. “Did you find out anything about Daniel’s brother?” 

Towering over him - not that they concerned themselves with trivial matters such as what mortals would perceive as physical prowess, but they quite enjoyed  _ towering _ over someone for a change - Beelzebub shook their head. “Dagon is looking into it as we speak.”

“Good.” A pause. “Then why are you here?”

“I owe you no explanation.”

“It’s three in the morning, and I was sleeping--”

“Not a very restful sleep, was it?” Beelzebub muttered, causing Gabriel to stiffen and scowl. 

“You had no  _ right _ to look into my mind.”

“Oh? And why not?” They tilted their head, genuinely curious. “You’re a mortal. Demons and angels both pull this kind of thing on mortals all the time. Helps swaying them, doesn’t it?”

That, Beelzebub knew, was a point Gabriel was powerless to deny, so he said nothing at all and just stood, walking away a few steps and picking up something from the floor - trousers, which he put on while hopping a little awkwardly from one foot to the other. It… rather ruined the Dignified Anger thing he was trying to convey. Also, he didn’t seem to have paused to think that the scars on his back, which he’d tried to conceal the best he could until then, were in full view.

“If this is how you think you can sway me into joining you, you have another think coming,” he muttered, turning to glare at the Prince of Hell once more. They returned the glare with a scowl of their own. 

“Accepting my gracious invitation would be the clever thing to do, considering how Heaven has treated you.”

If it struck a nerve, Gabriel did not let it show. A bit annoying, but Beelzebub found that they didn’t mind too much; they almost welcomed that glimpse of the Archangel they had known, the insufferable one who’d stick by the rulebook and seemingly allowed nothing to catch him off guard. 

“And I'm supposed to believe Hell is kinder to its inhabitants?”

“You have my word you shall never be harmed again to such an extent,” Beelzebub said. They were surprised to realized, halfway through the sentence, that it was not a lie. Seeing Gabriel’s expression subtly changing for one moment,  _ faltering, _ was even more surprising. However, it was gone before Beelzebub could even begin to savor it.

“... I didn’t join you last time you asked. I won’t this time either,” Gabriel muttered, crossing his arms. 

Beelzebub, having no idea  _ which  _ exchange he was precisely referring to, didn’t think to ask. They simply snarled. “I don’t like your tone. I don’t have to remind you that you  _ owe _ me something, do I? You owe me explanations,” they muttered. If a reminder was indeed needed it would have been a very painful one, they decided - but Gabriel shook his head.

“... No. As we agreed, I will share anything I can remember - once you have found Daniel’s brother for me. I keep my word.”

“You don’t want to.”

“What makes you think--”

“Don’t even  _ think _ of lying to me,” Beelzebub buzzed, and Gabriel had the good sense not to.

“What I do or do not want is irrelevant,” he finally replied, his voice flat. “I gave my word I would hold my half of the bargain, and I will.”

A snort. Doing as he was told, of course; what a good angel, they thought with no small amount of disdain. As a matter of fact a willingness to obey orders without discussion or qualms was also a very desirable trait in a demon - the forces of Hell were no better at that entire Free Will fad than Haven - but they chose not to let that inconvenient details get in the way of their disdain. The Prince of Hell also could have appreciated the fact he was going to do as  _ they  _ had  ordered, but the truth on the matter was that Gabriel was still as close to an angelic being a mortal could be, and they did not trust angelic beings. 

Even those who, as far as they were aware, had always acted by the book. 

“If you think you found a way out by having Heaven on the case and hoping it will find this mortal before I do, it’s not going to work,” they informed him. “The agreement was that I would bring you information, not that I would be the  _ first _ to do it.”

“I am aware. I wouldn’t think you of all people would fall for something so trivial,” Gabriel muttered. He sounded rather sincere there, and come to think of it, Beelzebub ought to have known he’d know better. They had plenty business discussions over the eons, after all; each knew how well-versed the other was with wording and fine print. 

Gabriel was nothing less than practical, if occasionally pedantic - which begged a question Beelzebub hadn’t asked him or themselves until now. “ _ Why  _ don’t you want to speak of it?”

“I don’t think it would matter, is all. What would change, knowing that--” a hesitation, and ah, Beelzebub knew there and then that Gabriel already knew  _ something. _ Prying it from his mind would be easy, but they did not. Later they would tell themselves they could not be bothered, that they were above breaking a deal, and pretend there had been no pang of  _ something _ stopping them that was a lot like concern, and a slight bit like fear.  _ Did they _ want to know?

“... Whatever the reason why I was not keen in seeing you Fall, and you did not strike me down when you could, means nothing now,” Gabriel finally said, his voice quiet. “It has been a long time. We are not the beings we were then.”

“Of course we’re not,” Beelzebub snapped. Something in the back of their mind stirred, almost close to dread, and they knew they had to leave. “I know what I’m doing.”

_ I don’t and he’s right, this is a waste of time. It wouldn’t matter, it can’t matter, it won’t matter. _

Gabriel gave them a somewhat doubtful look - an insolence they ought to punish, but again, they couldn’t be bothered. There would be time to do so later, in Hell, once they finally claimed his soul and that nonsense would be over with. And Hell was where they retreated, leaving Gabriel to stand alone, in silence, in the middle of a dark room.

* * *

“... He doodled at the corners of his paperwork, didn’t he?”

“He did!”

“And he was  _ terrible _ at it.”

“I didn’t think he was  _ that _ bad…”

“He was, Sandalphon.”

“He absolutely was.”

“You certainly are harsh critics--  _ oh! _ He had a thing for human clothing trends! He always wanted to keep up with it, he took me along a few times. He had this tailor during the Regency years who considered him his best client, I think he still had the suit somewhere...”

“Yes, he did have quite the collection of attires.”

“Remember the clothing he had in the Seventies?”

Michael and Uriel both made a face.

“God, I do.”

“I wish I didn’t.”

“One thing I would have happily  _ not _ remembered.”

“Well, you did say you ought to remember the good  _ and _ the bad, no?”

“Not the absolute worst, though.”

There was some laughter, and it was a relief. Bringing back what they had done to Gabriel, what they had been  _ ordered _ to do, had been difficult and painful, but once they had, it was as though a door had opened - one they had jammed shut themselves without even realizing it. Now they could remember, at least. And while it may be more difficult than just forgetting all about him, while it raised uncomfortable doubts and questions they knew they ought not to have -  _ why only him, why not us, was God’s will truly just _ \- it was a relief. 

“I was just thinking, remember that time--”

Michael’s phone pinged, cutting Sandalphon off, and as soon as she glanced down at it her expression changed; serious, more focused. 

“... It’s from the archives,” she said. As soon as Gabriel had called upon her to inform her it was a  _ brother _ they were actually looking for, she had put several angels in the archives to work on the new trail. She looked up at them. “... It seems they found something.”

* * *

_ “I hope this one doesn’t end in a supernova.” _

_ “Mmh?” _

_ “The star we finished build-- Ba’al, have you been listening to a word of what I’ve been saying?” _

_ “You lost me at ‘I was thinking’.” _

_ “... I said that right at the beginning.” _

_ “Then you lost me at the beginning.” _

_ The chest beneath Ba’al’s head rises and falls in an annoyed sigh. “I was saying, I really hope that the star doesn’t turn into a supernova at the end of its life cycle. The last one to do that made a dreadful noise.” _

_ “I found it fascinating, really.” _

_ “Of course you did.” Be’al can’t see Gabriel rolling his eyes, but they can easily feel it in his voice. “While I appreciated the light show, I don’t see why it ought to make such a ruckus. And I am not certain about the-- thing that came afterwards.” _

_ “The black hole? It’s... interesting. I went inside.” _

_ “You did?” _

_ “Mildly painful experience, but interesting nonetheless. It swallowed up all light - hard to get out of. I wonder what it’s for.” _

_ “Surely, it must serve a purpose.” _

_ “But what purpose?” _

_ A shrug, Gabriel’s wing wrapping around them. “Not my department,” he says, as Ba’al knew he would. It is all he ever has to say for just about anything God didn’t bother to explain them. They find it frustrating, but they can ignore it now, with a wing on them like a blanket. They glance up at the stars, head still resting on Gabriel.  _

_ “One of these days,” they say, although they don’t quite have a real concept of days yet, “you should come visit a black hole with me. Next time one happens.” _

_ Gabriel is clearly not especially enthusiastic, but does accept, if reluctantly. Not that it will matter. _

_ By the time a new black hole forms, Ba’al will be Fallen and forgotten about. _

* * *

“Lord Beelzebub! We scoured the archives and we have found-- Lord Beelzebub?”

“Nnngh,” the Prince of Hell replied, eyes squeezed shut against what was probably the worst headache they’d had in several centuries and oh, they’d had plenty of headaches. Fine, mostly metaphorical ones, whereas this one was very, very real.

_ These are not things I am meant to try bringing back. I shouldn’t be. It was all forgotten for a reason. It doesn’t matter. Gabriel said we’re not the same beings anymore and he was right, for Satan’s sake, I should have listened to that idiot and-- _

“Lord Beel--”

_ “Be quiet!” _ Beelzebub snapped, standing suddenly from their throne. Knowing better than to defy an order Dagon did, in fact, shut up. She stopped several steps away from them, a few files under her arm. Beelzebub knew what they must be, of course. “... Have you located the mortal’s brother?”

“We have narrowed it down to five mortals - one of them must be the one we’re looking for,” she said, and finally stepped closer, though keeping some distance between the two of them. She held out the files, and when they took them oh, was Beelzebub tempted to burn them to ashes. 

_ It was a stupid deal. I don’t want those memories anymore. I don’t even care if Gabriel joins the forces of Hell. He was a weak and useless archangel, and he’d be a weak and useless demon. There was never any good reason to work so hard to claim him - it was only a matter of pride, and Pride is Lucifer’s business. _

What did it matter, Beelzebub thought, if they destroyed those files? Surely, Heaven would be able to find the mortal just as well. Gabriel wouldn’t need their help to get what he wanted, and Michael would get to win that stupid contest and be smug. 

Very smug, knowing her.  _ Insufferably _ smug.

“Do you require anything else, Lord Beelzebub?” Dagon asked, cautiously, and the Lord of the Flies shook their head. 

“... No. That will be all,” was all they said, and vanished from Hell in a burst of flames, leaving Dagon to grapple with some confusion and a beginning of a headache of her own.

* * *

“What are  _ you _ doing here?”

“Same as you, I suspect, but you needn’t bother. As it happens, we have found some promising leads in Heaven’s archives--”

“What a coincidence, so did I in Hell!”

“A valiant effort, but needless. I got here first, and I already have--”

“We narrowed it down to five mortals. We only need to go through them--”

“We narrowed it down to three.”

“What!” Some furious buzzing, a flickering of the lightbulb above their head which Gabriel eyed worriedly. “That’s bullshit!”

Michael frowned. “Angels do not, as you put it, bullshit.”

“Now  _ that _ is bullshit.”

“We  _ did _ narrow it down to three, because two of those we identified are currently in Heaven and confirmed they never had a sibling called Daniel - therefore you may as well admit defeat.”

“Defeat?” Beelzebub seethed. The light flickered again, causing Gabriel to sigh and down a shot of whiskey. Taken as they were glaring at each other, neither Beelzebub nor Michael noticed. “This isn’t over until one of us  _ finds  _ him, so you can stick--”

“God help me, if you two have another playground fight I  _ swear  _ I am going to lose my shit.”

Gabriel’s word caused both Michael and Beelzebub to turn to him, the former with clear surprise and the latter with some amusement showing on their face. 

“That’s not a very heavenly thing to say,” they pointed out. 

“I’ll put a pound in the swear jar later,” Gabriel said drily, putting down the glass. “This was never supposed to be a competition, and  _ neither  _ of you is going to go looking for this mortal. No the Prince of Hell, and  _ definitely  _ not the Archangel Michael. There’s a reason why I was always the messenger, no? And I’ll find him, first and foremost, to give him the news Daniel passed - and the message he could not give him.” A pause. “... Was he told he has a brother in the first place?”

Michael blinked. “Ah-- I don’t think so. I’ll make sure he’s informed once I return to Heaven. Are you certain you can find the mortal on your own? Even  _ we _ may encounter some difficulties, we don’t usually keep such close tabs on random mortals. We know who these people are, not where they live.”

Gabriel, who could think of two people who could help him figure that part out (on the sofa in Aziraphale’s shop, Crowley lifted his head suddenly with a very distinct Bad Feeling) just nodded, and Michael nodded back. 

_ We remember you now, _ was the first thing she’d told him when she had showed up, minutes before Beelzebub did, and it showed in her words, in her mannerism. It was that of someone who knew him well.

“Very well. We did narrow it down to _three_ people, as I said, and--” Michael began, only to trail off when her gaze fell on the spot where Beelzebub had stood only moments earlier. It was empty; Gabriel noticed the fly buzzing out of the half-open window, but he said nothing of it.

_ It’s best if they keep away.  _

“And who are these three people?” he asked, like he hadn’t noticed the absence at all, causing Michael to recoil slightly. She recovered quickly, however, and handed him the folder she’d been keeping under her arm. 

“Right. So, the first possible match is called Owen Brown…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "For he is God's servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God's wrath on the wrongdoer."  
> \-- Romans 13:4


	18. John 15:15 - Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good chunk of what happened in this chapter was not planned. I am really bad at planning.  
> Also check out [these](https://hyunlou.tumblr.com/post/614029851950792704/down-the-penguin-hole) two [comics](https://hyunlou.tumblr.com/post/614495071656656896/shitpost-based-off-of-pengychan-s-fic-and-this) guys they’re awesome.

“All right, let’s see - three options, no?”

“Yes. Owen Brown, Lawrence Brown, and Rusty Brown. According to the information--”

“It’s Rusty,” Crowley spoke up, causing both Gabriel and Aziraphale to fall quiet and turn to look at him. Gabriel was utterly confused; Azirapale just raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to explain that knowledge. The demon shrugged.

“I refuse to believe any parent whose surname is Brown would willingly choose to pick _Rusty_ as their child’s name, unless there was a demonic intervention. It’s a bully magnet. Must have picked it himself when older. The man’s got a sense of humor.”

A chuckle. “We raised a child whose mother named him Warlock,” Aziraphale reminded him, causing Gabriel to blink. 

“You did-- what?” he asked. To his knowledge there were a lot of things an angel and a demon were not supposed to do together - they were supposed to do _nothing_ together, really, except trying to thwart each other at every turn - and Gabriel suspected that ‘raising a child’ came rather close to the top of that list. Maybe slightly below 'stopping the Apocalypse'.

Crowley ignored him, rolling his eyes. “You know the Satanic nuns of the Chattering Order of St Beryl must have had something to do with it.”  


“The who and the what now?” Gabriel tried again. This time, it was Aziraphale to ignore him.

“That is… fair. But we cannot rule out the possibility his parents did pick the name, and that therefore he is not our man. May I remind you we once knew a lady called Farting Clack?”

Crowley chuckled. “Ah, Victorians. That was a fun time. Except when we argued because you wouldn’t give me holy water.”

“I _did_ eventually, give it a rest.”

“You did what!” Gabriel exclaimed, outraged. Only to be, again, ignored. 

“Took you a good while, is what I’m saying.”

“Well, excuse me for worrying you might accidentally--” Aziraphale trailed off like something had struck him, and Crowley flinched. They both turned to Gabriel at the exact same time; Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, Crowley’s were hidden behind glasses. 

And Gabriel was very, very confused.

“... What?” he asked. The demon’s expression stayed unreadable, but Aziraphale’s anxious one melted in a smile. A very nervous smile. What in the--

“So, three options,” Aziraphale exclaimed, clapping his hands together with exaggerated glee. “Best to start looking into them, no?”

“Er… yes, I suppose. I do need to figure out where they live, at least. Then I suppose I can go by exclusion, visiting each of them.”

Crowley nodded. “Well, good thing we have an expert in tracking people down right here,” he said, and turned to Aziraphale. Gabriel followed suit, only for Aziraphale to blink at both of them like a particularly confused owl. 

It… didn’t give Gabriel much confidence over his supposed expertise in tracking down people. 

“I am-- no expert in tracking down people.”

Crowley’s turn to look confused. “You tracked down the Antichrist.”

“I had a book full of _prophecies_ to give me pointers. I suspect that counts as cheating.”

“Or as an intelligent use of available resources,” Gabriel suggested. Aziraphale chuckled.

“That _does_ sound better.”

“Ah. Right. We sure could use something like that now,” the demon muttered, and pulled out a phone from the… frankly ridiculously tiny pockets of his trousers, where no phone would fit unless there was a literal miracle at play. “... But at least we have the names and birthday, so there’s that. All right, first one, Owen Brown…”

* * *

“You’re shitting me.”

“Mr. Brown, I can _assure_ you angels do not do _that,_ either.” Uriel’s voice was calm, but her hands did grip the clipboard a little harder. She had hardly ever visited the lower spheres of Heaven where mortal souls resided before that ordeal, and now she was beginning to see _why._ “Please, do try to control your language.”

“Right, right, sorry,” Daniel Brown waved his hand, leaning back on his seat. “Not in front of a lady. Got it.”

“... I am an _angel,_ Mr. Brown,” Uriel pointed out flatly just as the man’s wife, sitting by him, raised an eyebrow. 

“Since _when_ do you try not to curse in front of ladies? Because I can’t recall you holding back much in the twenty-something years we have been married.”

“You’re not _a lady,_ you’re the wife. You knew the cussing was part of the package by the time we got to the altar, shouldn’t have married down,” Daniel Brown pointed out, and smiled. “Still not a clue why you gave me a chance when we met.”

She smiled back. “One too many drinks.”

“Ah, a drunken mistake, then.”

“The second best mistake of my life.”

“... Wait, what’s the first--”

Uriel held back a sigh. “Yes. Well. Regardless, what I have told you is true. You do have a brother as opposed to a sister as you believed.”

Daniel Brown rubbed his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“I repeat, there is no need to involve him,” Uriel droned. Mortals were a lot more difficult to deal with than she remembered, but then again last time she had directly dealt with any had been a few millennia earlier, when the trend was showing up with several pairs of wings, a few heads, wheels of fire and a handful of eyes here and there. They would occasionally die of fright but for the most part, once the screaming had ceased, they were cowed enough to politely listen.

And never did accuse them of, quote, shitting them.

“Right, I-- sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I just-- it’s a lot. First I die, it’s kind of, I mean, new. Then I met my wife again - wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but I thought I had lost her for-- well, it is a lot.” He cleared his throat again; Liv Brown reached to take his hand and squeezed it. He held it back. “Then, turns out the slightly weird but not-bad-at-all guy who helped me land a job and befriended me was the literal Archangel fuck-- the Archangel Gabriel in exile. And now you’re telling me that Alison is not… _Alison_ anymore, and that I wasted over a decade searching for her-- him-- on wrong information.”

Well. Perhaps it was, indeed, a lot to deal with for any human mind. Uriel made an effort to smile. “Gabriel is currently working on locating him so he can give him news of your passing. If there is anything more specific you wish him to know, within reason--”

“Within reason?”

“Except letting him know you’re sending this message from beyond death. That, I am afraid, is forbidden by current guidelines.” Uriel took a blank piece of paper she had on her clipboard and placed it on the table, along with a pen. “It will be given to Gabriel, and he’ll relay your message once your brother is found. It’s what he does best, after all.”

“... Heh. From announcing the birth of Christ to telling my brother I’m sorry I was a dick. Bit of a downgrade, but life is shi-- crap, anyway.” Daniel Brown chuckled and took the pen, but didn’t start writing yet. He looked at her questioningly. “… Why was he cast out? What happened?”

He’d asked before, and Uriel had told him it was none of his business, if not precisely using those exact words. When that had happened, her memories of Gabriel were few and in-between, and she was no longer sure the events had been precisely as they’d remembered and recorded for future reference. 

Now that those memories were back - only of Gabriel, none of them had dared bring up the possibility of trying to remember _other_ angels who were no more - she could tell him the details, if so she wished.

She did not, in fact, wish to. But it was not for her to decide.

“... I will ask Gabriel whether he wishes us to share that information with you,” she finally said. Daniel Brown seemed to realize it was the most he could hope for and he just nodded before he looked down, swallowed, put the pen to the paper, and began writing.

* * *

“He’s writing back!”

“Is he?”

“Yes. That’s what the dots mean. He’s typing.”

“This was… surprisingly easy.”

“Oh, I know. Whatever demon worked on Zuckerberg got a promotion, I heard. Got to admit, that Cambridge Analytica affair was a stroke of genius.”

“Ah, so that _was_ Hell’s doing.”

“I’m amazed you doubted that for even a moment.”

Gabriel supposed he might have guessed what Aziraphale and his demon were talking about if he focused, but he did not: all he could do was stare at the screen of Crowley’s phone, at those dots as the man at the other end - Rusty Brown, a man with rather debatable taste in t-shirts who, according to his profile, had indeed been born in Plymouth seventy years earlier but did not resemble Daniel in the slightest - wrote his response. 

_Maybe it is him,_ he thought. It would be a stroke of luck for Daniel’s brother to turn out to be the only man they’d been able to find and approach through social media; an easy way to deliver a message if there ever was one. That would be good. Too good, given Gabriel’s recent luck. 

And, within moments, a message came to confirm as much.

_“I’m afraid you got the wrong man, I have two sisters and no brothers,”_ Rusty Brown had written. _“Sorry - best of luck with your search.”_

Aziraphale sighed. “Ah, I supposed that would have been too easy.”

“No such thing as something _too_ easy. I like it when things are easy.” Crowley frowned at his phone. “And here I thought he was the most likely candidate. Let me see…” he mumbled, and began typing. Gabriel craned his neck to see the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking if his sisters are among his friends.”

“... Why?”

“If their parents went and named him _Rusty,_ I’m curious to see-- ah, Scarlet and Sandy Brown. Not sure I want to imagine what grade school was like for them,” he muttered, and blocked the screen. “Well. One’s out, two left.”

“And we did find one Owen Brown on the electoral register whose age fits,” Aziraphale added glancing at Gabriel. “If only we could figure out the place of birth, we’d know if he’s the Owen Brown on our list. But it’d be quicker to go speak to him, he lives in Luton. No phone number - probably no landline.”

Gabriel, who had only a very vague idea of where Luton was, nodded. “I’ll go find him, then. I took the rest of the week off specifically for this,” he added. What he was doing for Daniel was of paramount importance, of course, but he was _also_ needed at work and disappearing with no warning would have been extremely unprofessional.

Aziraphale waved a hand. “It won’t take long. Crowley and I can take you--”

“Absolutely not," Crowley declared, cutting him off. Aziraphale turned to glance at him. Crowley crossed his arms and tilted up his chin, clearly ready to stand by what he’d said.

A sigh. “Crowley, it wouldn’t take more than--”

"We're not going with him. We'll put him on the first train, give him a map, and good luck to him."

"Now, dear. Luton is not that far, it would take less than a hour with the Bentley and you wouldn't even need to take the M25--"

"It’s not the M25 that’s the problem,” Crowley replied. “After driving down it while on fire, I don’t think it’s going to ever feel like a problem on a normal day again. _Luton_ is the problem.”

"... Something in particular about it that I don't know about?"

"Last time I was there, I got stabbed."

"Oh. That does sound bothersome,” Aziraphale conceded. “What did you do to--"

"I walked in a pub."

“And then?”

“Nothing. I walked in a pub and got stabbed by someone who decided he didn’t like the way I was looking at him.”

“Were you not wearing sunglasses?”

“Of course I was.”

“Then how would he know--”

“He didn’t. He just was in a stabby mood.”

“Charming,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Luton,” Crowley huffed. 

“Well, it was probably quite a while ago--”

“The Nineties were not _that_ long ago.”

“I… can go on my own,” Gabriel dared intervene, trying not to sound _overly_ worried by what he was hearing. “I’ve taken trains to come here, after all. It wasn’t difficult.”

Aziraphale seemed a little concerned regardless, but in the end he relented, and Crowley _did_ drive him to the station the next morning, to catch a train for Luton. With that, the address and money for a cab, Gabriel was rather sure he was at no risk of getting lost. 

And he’d make sure not to step in any pub, just in case.

* * *

“... Not the bloke you’re looking for, no. Sorry, mate.”

“Ah-- well, I suppose it was worth a try. I’ll be on my way. My apologies for the intrusion.”

“No, wait - I was about to go have a pint with some mates, come with us. It’s on me.”

“Really, I cannot accept--”

“You can, young man. Won’t let you go your way looking like someone kicked you. A pint or two always makes it better - just a quiet night out with the lads.”

“Well…” Gabriel hesitated a moment, then relented. A pint or two was nothing he couldn’t take - he’d had nights out like that in Southampton, first with Daniel and then with other colleagues. And besides, the man was in his late sixties; surely, things wouldn’t get too out of hand. In the end, he smiled and nodded. “... Only if you let me pay the second round,” he said.

He did pay the second round. Owen Brown paid the third. A friend of his paid the fourth; Gabriel insisted to pay the fifth. 

Afterwards, he wouldn’t be entirely sure any of them was paying at all.

* * *

Ever since regaining his memories of Gabriel - and before then, really - Sandalphon had wondered what meeting him face to face again would be like. Last he’d seen him, Gabriel had been terrified of him, hiding behind Beelzebub of all beings; it was not a pleasant thought.

He could speak with Michael without fear now, at least, and Sandalphon hoped it was only a matter of time before he would willingly summon him, too, so that they could talk. Clear up, if possible, even if it would be a difficult conversation. 

What he had not expected was for Gabriel to summon him by drunkenly shouting his name in the back of a pub in Luton, England, before the eyes of a group of drunken humans who cheered at his appearance like it was a magic trick while someone from inside yelled about not firing fireworks close to buildings. 

And Gabriel looked… almost _more_ dishevelled than he’d been when he had been cast out of Heaven, except that now he had No blood on him and a smile on his face almost too wide to be physically possible. 

“San-dal-phon,” Gabriel had slurred, throwing an arm around his shoulders before he could say a word and turning to the humans. “This is my friend, guys!”

“I, uh…” Sandalphon had blinked as the humans raised their glasses and cheered. He chose to give a polite smile. “Greetings,” he said. Some responded to his greeting, some just drank, someone put a glass in his hand, and he stared at it for a few moments before realising they expected him to drink. 

“Good,” Gabriel was muttering, arm still around his shoulders. Strange as his behavior was, it was… nice to see he was not afraid of him. “Good stuff. Try.”

Ah well, Sandalphon thought, may as well do as he asked. It wasn’t like a glass of whatever concoction the humans had offered him could hurt an angel, anyway.

* * *

“Uuuugh.”

“Owww.”

“Head hurts.”

“Where are we?”

“... Earth?”

“This isn’t Heaven for sure.” Gabriel sat up, fighting back a wave of nausea, and blinked blearily to put his surroundings into focus. They were in… someone’s back garden, it seemed, on what looked like a semi-inflated camping mattress. “Probably still Luton,” he muttered, rubbing his face, and turned. Whose house was that? He’d only seen Owen Brown’s home from the front, so it was hard to tell. God, they must have been blind drunk to crash like that. The sun was just rising, and he barely remembered a handful of moments from the night before.

Behind him, Sandalphon was struggling to sit up as well, his suit all wrinkled; Gabriel suspected his own suit looked about as much of a mess, and went to uselessly smooth down the front. “You… miracled the glasses full a few times, didn’t you?”

“I think? I-- ah, yes. Yes I did. In front of witnesses.”

“Drunk witnesses. They will either forget about it, or think they dreamed it up.”

“God, I hope so. If Michael finds out, I’m going to be in trouble.”

“You can sleep on my couch if they cast you out,” Gabriel tried to joke, trying to brush back his hair and entirely missing the uncomfortable look Sandalphon gave him. “Agh, my head…”

“Wait, I can fix that.” A touch on the back of his head, and the pain was gone - as was the hangover as a whole, the unpleasant taste in his mouth and the ache in his lower back. Gabriel stood, glancing down - his suit was once again clean and pressed, too.

“... Thanks.”

“No problem.” 

He heard Sandalphon standing up as well, and turned to look at him as he miracled his own clothing back in pristine condition. He adjusted his collar, and cleared his throat. “Well, that was… an unusual evening.”

“It was,” Gabriel agreed. “Er… why are you here in the first place?”

“You summoned me?”

“I did?” Ah, he probably had. “... My apologies. I was intoxicated.”

“I could tell. But-- still better than having you scream and hide behind the Prince of Hell, no?” Sandalphon added, clearly trying to joke. His smile froze when Gabriel flinched - at the mention of Beelzenbub, namely, but Sandalphon couldn’t tell. “I mean-- sorry. Shouldn’t have brought it up. I know you have… good reason to want us to keep away.”

A sigh. “Do I?” Gabriel muttered, turning to face him fully. “I knew you wouldn’t have harmed me again. And I knew you didn’t have a choice when you did."

“But we sort of did,” Sandalphon said, meeting his gaze. “We could have refused and-- gone with you.”

“Rebelling to God on my account?” Gabriel repeated, and found himself unable to contemplate the thought. “You’d have found yourselves in Hell, and not Earth, for something like that. It doesn't bear thinking about,” he added, realizing the truth of it only as it passed his lips. Say that Michael, Uriel and Sandalphon had indeed refused to carry out God’s order - what then? They would have faced God’s wrath, probably thrown down in Hell, while Gabriel was stripped of his wings and cast down on Earth anyway.

And Gabriel found he couldn’t bear the thought. 

“We… we should have--”

“It doesn’t matter. The outcome wouldn’t have changed,” Gabriel cut him off. “It was… out of your hands. No point thinking about it now.”

A long breath. “All right. But I am-- glad we still remember you.”

Something about those words warmed up a spot in Gabriel’s chest. He smiled. “Thank you. I’m glad I never forgot you.”

“If there is anything you need-- anything at all--”

A sudden whistling noise caused Sandalphon to cut off, and Gabriel to pull out his mobile phone from his pocket. The battery was still full - a little miracle by Aziraphale ensured it never ran out - and there was a flashing icon on the screen, that of a text message. The number was not among his contacts, but Gabriel suspected he could guess who it came from.

He simply didn’t really know anyone _else_ whose number could possibly be 666-666-666. No one he was on speaking terms with, anyway. 

_Are we still on speaking terms?_

Gabriel forced himself to ignore the thought, and opened the text message. There was a name, an address, followed by only three words: _it is him._

Gabriel read the message again, then put the phone back in his pocket. He briefly touched his breast pocket, where the message Daniel had written was. He had memorized it, of course, so he could relay it to his brother, but what he hadn’t thrown it away; the reason why he had not were a few brief lines Daniel had written on the back of it that were not addressed to his brother.

They were addressed to him.

_Thank you for doing this for me. Sorry I didn’t believe you when you said who you were but, I mean, come on. I miss having you around. You’re a good man, what does God know anyway? Hug my brother for me and give the guys at work a pat on the back._ _  
_ _PS - Fabrizio was right, putting cream in carbonara does land you in Hell. Warn Łukasz to stop._

“Gabriel? Everything all right?” Sandalphon asked, and he looked up. 

“... Yes. I do need a favor, though.”

“Anything.”

“Could you give me a lift to Devon, by any chance?”

* * *

In the end, Lawrence Brown hadn’t moved too far from his old home in Plymouth. Or maybe he had, and made the decision to return to Devon in his later years; not something Gabriel could blame him for. Built by the sea, Paignton seemed a good place to live.

The house Gabriel found himself looking at, too, seemed the perfect place to spend one’s retirement; a small white cottage with flowers in the garden, and a tree for some shade. However it seemed that no one was home, which was not something Gabriel had really prepared for. After knocking the door a few times to no avail, and briefly considering writing a message with his phone number - not viable, as he didn’t have a pen - he decided it would be best to try again later. Before he went, however, he tried to glance in through the window, just in case--

“... May I help you?” 

A voice called out behind him, causing Gabriel to flinch and turn. He found himself facing what, for a moment, looked very much like a cloud; a very white and very fluffy cloud, with four legs, black eyes and a lolling tongue. A-- yes, a dog. Gabriel had been long aware of their existence, of course, but would never cease to be perplexed by the sheer variety of shapes and forms within what was essentially the same animal. 

He’d never really wondered how humans had achieved _that,_ but then again, humans were capable of more than he had thought possible for a long time - up to looking at some of God’s most efficient killing machines on Earth and somehow deciding they were going to make friends out of them, tying themselves to said killing machines with a length of rope. Or leather. Or fabric. 

In this one case, it was leather specifically that tied that giant, smiling cloud of a dog to its human. A woman, somewhere between sixty and seventy, with gray hair pulled up in a bun, a rather oversized jumper, and thick black-rimmed glasses. She was looking at him questioningly, and Gabriel cleared his throat, giving his best smile. 

_Come on,_ he told himself, _you’re the Messenger. You have delivered far odder messages than this one. Just don’t start with ‘do not be afraid’. They always freak out when you do._

“I think you may, yes,” he said, still smiling. “My name is Gabriel Archer. I’m looking for Mr. Lawrence Brown. I understand he lives at this address?”

“Oh,” the woman said, “I’m afraid my husband is out for some errands, but he should be back shortly. I don’t believe we’ve met,” she added, not stepping closer. A little wary of a stranger she found peering through her window - Gabriel supposed that was normal, even if he hadn’t showed up in the midst of golden light with a vast array of otherworldly and, he could see it now, frankly unnecessary features for the task. 

The fluffy white cloud made a boofing sound, just kind of _smiling_ at him, and Gabriel could see why she wasn’t counting too much on it being of any protection should he turn out to be… what did humans seem to fear again? Axe murderers? Gabriel certainly hoped he didn’t look like one.

“No, we have not,” he said. “Nor have I had the pleasure to meet your husband yet - I have… a message for him. From his late brother,” he added quickly. 

Whatever she had been expecting, that was not it. She blinked, recoiling a little. “... From his brother?” she repeated.

“Yes. Daniel Brown,” he said, and saw some recognition in her eyes. 

“He… talked about him, a few times, but not much,” the woman muttered, and it was easy to tell, from her expression alone, that it had been a sore spot for Mr. Lawrence Brown - the brother who had rejected him so long ago. She finally took a step forward, clearly reassured he was someone with an actual reason to be there that did not include mugging or violent murder. “Late-- has he passed away?”

“... I am afraid he has. I am sorry,” Gabriel murmured, and he truly was. It felt wrong, on every level, because it should have been Daniel to stand where he stood, to finally see his brother again after so long. He was meant to be a messenger but ah, he wished he didn’t have to be now. “I am here on his behalf, or… at least I picked up the search where he left off.”

“Are you his solicitor, or…?”

“Only a friend. Daniel had been looking for your husband to make amends, but he didn’t know… his current name.”

A sigh. “Of course, he would not,” she murmured, and finally stepped closer, holding out her hand. By her side, the cloud-dog kept wagging its tail, tongue still lolling. “I’m Berenice,” she said. “Lawrence’s wife, though you gathered that much. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Archer. ”

Gabriel smiled. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said, shaking her hand. When he let go of it, it immediately went to rest on the dog’s head. 

“Well, it is awfully rude of me to keep you standing at my door like a salesman. Do come in. Lawrence should be back soon, or else he would have taken his walking stick. I still would very much prefer if he took it for short walks as well. He has a bad knee and I always tell him that his stupid kneecap doesn’t give a toss how long or short the walk is, when it decides to give in it gives in and he’d be in for a nasty fall without the stick. But he’s a stubborn old goat, of course. Pushing seventy and still acting like he’s twenty.”

Gabriel smiled, thinking back of the numerous occasions Daniel had insisted on picking up more weight than he could reasonably carry in the warehouse, just to show off, only to spend the entire evening complaining about his back ache… and then do it all over again the next day. “Seems stubbornness ran in the family.”

A chuckle. “I am sure he’ll be glad to hear more about what his brother was like,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. Gabriel hoped it would help, although nothing could change the fact he was there to inform Lawrence Brown of the untimely death of his younger brother.

“... I do hope I can give him more than bad news,” he said, and followed Berenice inside, daring to pat that dog-shaped cloud on the head to receive a soft _boof_ and a very pleased look.

Maybe, Gabriel reasoned, the humans were on to something when they took killing machines and chose to make friends out of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you."  
> \-- John 15:15


	19. Luke 15:32 - Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, time to meet Larry.
> 
> (Also check out [these two](https://pengychan.tumblr.com/post/614031670056779776) amazing [comics](https://pengychan.tumblr.com/post/614495199869222912/crowleys-face-in-the-second-to-last-panel-is-the) based on this fic, both by [hyunlou](https://hyunlou.tumblr.com/post/614495071656656896/shitpost-based-off-of-pengychan-s-fic-and-this!).)

“Have more cake.”

“Ah, thank you, I believe I am--” 

A large slice of carrot cake landed on Gabriel’s dish before the words ‘quite full’ were even out. Gabriel’s gaze shifted from it to the dog - whose name was Arthur Canine Doyle, he’d learned, Doyle for short. It was resting its muzzle on Gabriel’s knee, looking up pleadingly. A very pink tongue emerged to lick its snout the moment he looked down. It sure made itself hard to ignore.

Gabriel was beginning to suspect it was after the cake.

“... And so he asked me to marry him,” Berenice was going on, serving herself a generous amount of cake as well. “I mean, with the papers in order, new documents and all, he really didn’t have any excuse left not to, you know? But he maintains he planned to ask all along.”

“I see,” Gabriel said, smiling a little and letting his gaze wander across the room. They were sitting in a living room, whose walls were covered in paintings of seaside landscapes; an half-finished painting was at the far end of the room. It definitely explained the dashes of color on Berenice’s jumper, and the strong smell of paint.

A chuckle, and she took a sip of tea. “We married in summer 2006 and it rained the entire bloody day, of course it did, but the ceremony was lovely. My son walked me down the aisle and everything. We also had my old dog as our ring bearer,” she added, nodding to something on Gabriel’s right. 

He followed her gaze, and found himself looking at a framed photo of the dog in question - huge and hairy as Doyle, with a long lolling tongue, but completely black. However, it wasn’t the dog to catch his gaze as much as the newlyweds standing right behind it, smiling for the camera. 

At first sight, Lawrence Brown didn’t resemble his younger brother at all. Daniel had been on the short side but broad, a full beard covering half his face, and the most elegant attire Gabriel had ever seen on him consisted of clean jeans and a flannel shirt. Lawrence’s build was slighter, and he was dressed in an impeccable suit that Gabriel was certain had to be tailored. He was clean-shaven, iron-gray hair neatly combed back, a black cane with a silver handle in one hand; the other arm was around Berenice’s waist. 

And yet there was  _ something _ in the broad smile, the aquiline nose, the cheekbones and… ah, yes, the same dark green eyes. They two brothers didn’t quite resemble each other, but they did share some features upon closer inspection. It made Gabriel smile a little. Daniel would be glad to know that. “That’s a really nice photograph.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Berenice smiled. “I don’t think I ever spent so much time doing my hair before or since, but it was worth it. Towards the end of the ceremony his bad knee was bothering him, did I say it was bloody rainy? So I suggested we took the photos sitting down, but he wouldn’t have that. He’s stubborn, did I mention that?”

Gabriel smiled. “A few times,” he said, and was about to start eating the third slice of cake out of politeness - time to find out how much his stomach could really take - when Doyle’s ears suddenly perked up. The dog pulled its head off Gabriel’s knee and stood, running to the next room, where the entrance was, with a wagging tail and a noise that sounded much like ‘boof’.

“Ah, there he is,” Berenice murmured. She put her cup of tea aside and stood from her armchair. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” she added, the smile gone from her face - a stark reminder to Gabriel that he was not there to deliver an especially cheery message. It made sense for her to want to prepare her husband for what was to come.

He put the dish aside and nodded, his mouth pulled in a tight line, as Berenice quickly went through the entrance. Through the doorway, Gabriel could just hear a man’s voice asking the dog who was ‘a good boy’, which he found mildly confusing, not least because he knew dogs were unable to utter a response. Then he was cut off, and Gabriel could make out Berenice speaking in a soft tone, although he couldn’t grasp the words.

_ A message to deliver. It’s what I do best,  _ Gabriel thought, instinctively reaching up to straighten his tie.  _ Please, please, do not cry, _ he thought immediately afterwards. Until not too long ago, if it had been over a message God tasked him to deliver to a mortal, the thought of his words being met with tears might have been mildly awkward at worst. Now, something in his chest ached at the mere thought. 

_ It should be Daniel sitting here. Not me. This is not fair. _

_ Mortal lives are short,  _ something whispered in the back of his mind. 

_ They needed more time, Daniel needed more time, he should have gotten to grow old. _

Ah, that wouldn’t have mattered until a few months ago, either. He had been ready to follow the Great Plan and see humanity annihilated, because it was the  _ plan _ and there was nothing else he ought to care about. Billions human lives lost, Daniel’s and his brother’s and his wife’s among them; billions with unfinished business and years to live, and he hadn’t cared.

Aziraphale had cared. A  _ demon _ had cared - but not him.  _ You’re a good man,  _ Daniel had written. Ah, if only he’d known.

In the next room there was more quiet talking, a brief silence, and then steps. Gabriel stood as Lawrence Brown walked in with a slight limp, looking at him with those dark green eyes that looked so familiar. He was older than in the photo, but there were few differences - a few more wrinkles around his eyes, his hair having gone from iron to silver, more informal clothing. The one big change, of course, was on his expression; the broad smile had changed into a polite one that barely hid the hurt, the many questions he certainly ached to ask.

And Gabriel would answer, at the best of his abilities.

_ Don’t say ‘fear not’. _

“Mr. Brown,” Gabriel greeted him, holding out his hand. “My name is Gabriel Archer. I-- apologize for the intrusion.”

Lawrence’s smile seemed a little more sincere as he reached back to shake his hand. “Thank you for coming,” he said, and sat on the armchair in front of him while Doyle went to lay down at his feet. Berenice walked up to the armchair, putting a hand on his shoulder; he reached up to hold it, but his gaze never left Gabriel. “... I assume I wasn’t easy to find.”

Telling him both Heaven and Hell had been going crazy looking for him would have made for a truthful answer, but not a very wise one. Gabriel nodded, sitting as well. “You were not, but I-- I owed it to Daniel.”

_ If only I’d asked for assistance earlier, we could have found you on time. Before he died. _

The name caused the smile to fade, and Lawrence drew in a deep breath, holding a little tighter on his wife’s hand. “Is what you told my wife true? That Daniel’s-- gone?”

A weight seemed to settle in Gabriel’s stomach as he nodded. “I am afraid he is. He passed away in his sleep a few weeks ago - heart failure.”

Lawrence let out all air in his lungs in a long breath, lowering his eyes. He swallowed before he spoke, Berenice still holding his hand in silent, steady comfort. “He’d have been fifty-five.”

“He was.”

“Fifty-six on the tenth of August. St. Lawrence’s day.” A shaky breath. “He was not old.”

“No, he was not,” Gabriel said, very quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Unfair, that. Margaret Thatcher lived a lot longer than that, may she rot in Hell.”

“She is.”

“Sorry?”

“Uh, nothing.”

A pause as Lawrence glanced at the photo and then back again. The pain was there behind his eyes, raw and palpable, but kept at bay. It was the gaze of someone who’d learned to deal with pain. Someone who’d lost an entire family before. Someone who’d been cast out, and had to learn to deal with it. It was a gaze Gabriel had seen in the mirror before.

“It is hard to imagine,” Lawrence said slowly, his voice a little less strained. “He was only ten last I saw him. A little boy. He still had gaps in his mouth where his baby teeth fell off.”

“I have a photo.” Gabriel reached in the internal pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photo of Daniel during a dinner for Łukasz’s birthday. It had been Fabrizio to take it, and he’d done Gabriel a huge favor by having it properly printed out; it showed Daniel sitting back against the backrest of his chair, a pint in his hand, laughing at something. He handed it to Lawrence, who hesitated a moment before taking it with a slightly shaky hand.

_ The photo of a stranger,  _ Gabriel found himself thinking,  _ why would he care to see the photo of a stranger? Daniel was no longer the boy he knew. He doesn’t know him at all. _

_ “It has been a long time,”  _ he had told Beelzebub _. “We are not the beings we were then.” _

“Oh,” Lawrence said, after looking at it for a few moments. His features twisted a moment - that pain again, trying to come to the surface - but in the end, he smiled. “Here he is, dear,” he finally muttered, glancing up at his wife. “My little brother, all grown up.”

Berenice smiled as well. “Almost as handsome as you.”

“I know, right? I like the beard, it never did much for my face - now that was a disappointment - but it looks good on him. He… heh. He looks like our father.”

Knowing what he did about his and Daniel’s parents - which was little, but none of it good - Gabriel was not quite sure what to think of the oddly fond smile that curled Lawrence’s lips for a moment. Nostalgia, maybe. However it was gone quite quickly, and Lawrence looked up at him again. He didn’t put down the photo, Gabriel noticed; he held it in his hands, as though unable to let go of it. “Thank you,” he said, his voice a little strained again. Gabriel managed a smile. 

“You’re welcome. I just finished what he started. He-- was looking for you.”

A shaky breath, and Lawrence shook his head. “No, he was not.”

“Huh? No, I assure you, he’d been trying for years--”

“He was looking for Alison. That was not me.”

_ Beelzebub, not Ba’al.  _

_ No. Enough. They have nothing to do with any of this. Ba’al fought God and fell and is no more. _

Gabriel closed his mouth, at a loss for words for a few moments-- but then he remembered the letter Daniel had written for him to memorize, and shook his head. “He was looking for  _ you.  _ Only under the wrong name, is all. There were things he did not know.”

_ I want you to know I loved you then and I love you now, wherever you are. You were the best sibling I could have asked for, I am sorry I couldn’t see that. I am sorry I never read your letter. _

“... He was sorry for what he said to you. He didn’t mean it. He regretted it his entire life.”

A long pause, a sigh. “He was only a child, then. I never held it against him. It was not his fault,” Lawrence said, looking down at the photograph again. “God, he looks so different.”

“Still your little brother,” Berenice spoke softly, reaching to brush back his hair. 

“... Yes. He was.” He brushed a thumb over the photo. “I should visit him. Where is he buried?”

Oh, that. “The… funeral has not gone ahead yet. They were trying to locate his next of kin. Which would be you,” Gabriel said, gaining himself a startled look.

“Just me? Isn’t there… anyone else?”

“He was married, but his wife passed away years ago. He had... an eventful life.” Gabriel managed a smile. “I’d be happy to fill you in, if you’d like. So that you know more about him.”

A long look, and he smiled. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand still holding the photo. “... I would appreciate that more than words can say,” he replied. Berenice smiled, and squeezed his hand one more time before letting go. “I’ll be making more tea for everyone.”

“No need, I still have a cup--”

“Which you let go cold, Mr. Archer,” she cut him off with a chuckle, reaching to take it. “No, no, sit. Please. You have a lot to talk about.”

And he did, he truly did - filling in Lawrence with all he knew about Daniel’s life, the ups and downs, the happy life and marriage, the death of his wife, illness, homelessness, how he pulled himself out of it; what a good worker he was, how respected by everyone he worked with him.

And most of all he told him everything that Daniel was; a good man, a  _ generous  _ man, someone who’d share the last of his beer with a weird frazzled stranger he met in a park, and then let him sleep in his tent when he became too drunk to go anywhere else. Lawrence listened, smiled, and got misty-eyed - and it was all right, because so did Gabriel and he found there was no shame in that. It was a fundamental part of being human, after all. 

By the time he finished speaking, Lawrence Brown looked many things - saddened and grateful, nostalgic and thoughtful, but most of all he looked  _ proud.  _ “He turned out well,” he said, and smiled down at the photo. “He was always a good kid. I was sure he’d be a good man.”

“He was the best hum--” ah, wait. Not the right wording. “The best  _ man _ I have known. Ah, thank you,” Gabriel said, taking the cup of tea Berenice was handing him. Behind her, Lawrence sneakily passed a biscuit to Doyle. 

“Well. It seems I ought to get in touch, then, so I can organise the funeral. I will let you know all the details so you and your colleagues can attend,” Lawrence added. “I am… very grateful to you for going through the trouble of coming all the way here.”

Gabriel smiled. “I had a debt of gratitude.”

“To Daniel, but not to me. How may I repay you?”

“Well…” All right, he ought to word this in a way that was not weird, because telling him he wanted to know more about his life so he could tell Daniel about it was not an option, unless he wished an ambulance to be called to take him. “You seem to have had an interesting life yourself. I grew curious as I searched you - if it’s not too much to ask for you to indulge my curiosity…?” 

A chuckle. “Ah, it was not as interesting as you might believe, so prepare to be disappointed. When I left Plymouth after… well. When I left it was early May - the first of May, I think. Or was it the tenth? Well, one of the two. Either way, I decided to board the first train to London…”

* * *

“Aren’t you going to miss London at all?”

“Ah, maybe the nightlife. But whenever that happens, we can always hop on the Bentley and go like the wind.”

“That is a slightly frightening thought.”

“Oh, come on, you know I never crash.”

“But you have caused others to crash upon occasion, do I have to remind you-- oh, this one looks nice.”

“It does, doesn’t it? It’s got a big loft, too, we can miracle it to be bigger on the inside. Nice large window, lets in plenty of natural light.”

“It would make a perfect library!”

“... I was thinking of houseplants.”

“Is that necessary? This comes with such a lovely garden, you can have all the plants you wish.”

“Ah, right. Still had my brain wired on ‘flat’.”

“Well. I see no reason why we can’t have houseplants in the library. Is that tree in the garden?”

“An apple tree? Yes.” Crowley had to admit it was an amusing coincidence. He scrolled through the photos. “Ah, that corner over there would be perfect for shrubs, and that spot in the sun… hedges all around… yes, I could turn it into something like Eden with some work.”

“Oh, and I could help you!”

“What?”

“In the garden.”

“Angel, if you so much try to go all  _ Brother Francis _ again and be kind to garden pests--”

“I promise I will not, as long as  _ you _ promise not to raise your voice at the plants.”

Crowley sighed. “Yes, yes, compromise. I am reasonably sure we already discussed this point. Didn’t we?”

“I think we did, yes.”

“Would be easier to remember if we didn’t keep getting interrupted to babysit--”

Aziraphale’s phone rang. Crowley rolled his eyes. Case in point.

“Ah, it might be Gabriel,” Aziraphale said. As far as Crowley was concerned, it was all the more reason not to answer the phone - if the idiot got himself stabbed in Luton it was his own problem, he’d received a fair warning - but Aziraphale picked up the receiver before he could voice those thoughts.

“Hello? Oh, Gabriel! I did wonder why you didn’t call-- oh, you found him? Wait-- Paington? How did you get there from Lut-- ah, I see. Well, that’s delightful news, isn’t it! When are you going to-- oh, you already… my, wasn’t that quick! And how did it go? Wonderful, wonderful. I’m sure your friend will be happy to know that. Is there anything more we can do to assist? Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Ah, you’re quite welcome, you’re quite welcome. Of course, it was no trouble at all. Take care, then.”

As the call ended, Crowley raised an eyebrow. “So, he found the bloke?”

“He did. He called to thank us,” Aziraphale replied, sounding mildly surprised.

Crowley frowned. “Us?” he repeated. The former Archangel fucking Gabriel thanking  _ him, _ too?

“Yes, he specifically said ‘both of you’,” was the reply. Well, now that was… unexpected. 

“Looks like he finally learned some manners,” he muttered, and Aziraphale chuckled, nudging him with an elbow as he sat back next to him, looking down at the cottage they  _ might _ just pick.

“Before it slips my mind, one thing we should check is if there’s a good bakery in the vicinity…”

* * *

Lawrence and Berenice insisted for Gabriel to stay for lunch.

At first he’d thought to decline, if anything because the amount of cake he’d been fed throughout the morning almost dwarfed what Aziraphale had been trying to get in his stomach with varying degrees of success - but after so long looking for Lawrence, Gabriel found he wanted to stay a bit longer. 

He wanted to get to know him a little better, gather more details he could pass on to Daniel, and answer any more questions Lawrence may have about his brother. He couldn’t answer all of them, because what he knew of Daniel’s life before they met he’d only heard about, but he did his best. 

And besides, he found it was very easy to discreetly slip food under the table to Doyle in order to keep his stomach from bursting without refusing food, which Berenice had made clear would not be tolerated. If anything, Doyle appreciated his initiative a lot. By the time Gabriel left, after exchanging numbers and thanks and with polite handshakes, it was mid-afternoon and… a pleasantly mild day overall, despite being just early March. 

It was only a short walk to the seafront, where a few people were walking their dogs or kicking around a spherical object - ah, right, a soccer ball - only to have it stolen by a dog who then ran off, forcing a couple of people to chase it. But they were laughing, so Gabriel supposed they were not especially bothered by the inconvenience. 

He sat outside a café, ordered a coffee, called Aziraphale to update him as he waited and then he pulled a small notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket to start jotting down all that Lawrence had told him about himself and his life, so that it could be passed on to Daniel. His memory used to be infallible, as that of all angels, but that no longer was the case: he retained all he had learned in his existence as part of the Heavenly host, but new information was harder to fix into his mind now that he was a mortal. 

An interesting side effect, considering that,  _ other _ memories had been making a comeback.

_ “I know you,”  _ he’d said once to a Virtue known as Ba’al. 

_ “No. You do not.” _

_ Not the beings we were then. _

_ Why would he care to see the photo of a stranger? _

_ “My little brother, all grown up,” _ Lawrence Brown had said. 

_ It has been a long time. He doesn’t know him at all. _

_ “Thank you for coming,”  _ he had said.  _ “Thank you for bringing Daniel back to me.” _

“... Sir? Is something the matter with your coffee?”

“Huh?”

Gabriel blinked, and realized three things at once: that he had been stating in the distance towards the waves with the pen in mid-air for several minutes, that the coffee in front of him was untouched and growing cold, and that the waitress was looking at him with mild concern. 

He smiled. “Ah, I got a bit lost in thought. Thanks for snapping me out of it,” he said, and she smiled back before leaving. He picked up the mug, took a sip and ah, it needed more sugar, it was so bitter only Beelzebub could possibly appreciate-- no, best not to think of them. Not now. 

All too soon, he suspected, they would show up to demand he repaid the favor, and Gabriel would keep his word. He had to.

But for now, he would focus on the task at hand - the message he truly wanted to pass on.  Gabriel put down the mug, picked up the pen, and began writing.

* * *

“A  _ risk analyst? _ Is that an actual thing?”

“I am fairly sure it is.”

“Gabriel’s got to be shit-- pulling my leg,” Daniel Brown said, to his credit correcting himself  _ very _ fast when he noticed Uriel’s raised eyebrow. Beside him, his wife seemed amused. 

“Not the career you had imagined for him?”

“Not what I’d imagine for anyone, since I didn’t know it existed. When Ali-- Lawrence left, she-- he’d-- agh, I keep fucking this up.”

As Uriel sighed in defeat - that man’s language was  _ impossible  _ \- Liv Brown chuckled. “You’ll get used to it,” she said. Uriel was not entirely certain she was talking to her husband about his use of correct pronouns, or reassuring  _ her _ that sooner or later his language would cease bothering her.

To be honest, Uriel had no plans to stay in the lower spheres of Heaven long enough to get used to any of it.

Unaware of her thoughts, Daniel Brown shrugged, scanning the message of several pages Gabriel had sent back for him. “Hope so, I keep slipping up and feeling like an arse-- an idiot, I mean. But… a  _ risk analyst. _ I imagined he’d, I don’t know, boarded a plane to Australia to be a kangaroo herder or something. Not board a train to London to become a risk analyst. I can get he’s a guy but what job is  _ that  _ supposed to be?”

“... It doesn’t sound particularly adventurous, I agree. On the bright side, getting to him might have been a little more difficult if he lived in Australia herding kangaroos.”

“Ah, fair.”

They kept going over the latter together, and Uriel silently left the room without either of them noticing. Her work there was done; Daniel Brown may have never met his brother in life - he would in Heaven, most likely, if Lawrence Brown’s file was anything to go by he was well on course to get in - but at least he had the answers he had been seeking. 

Uriel, on the other hand, still has no answer to the questions that wouldn’t leave her alone - nor Michael nor Sandalphon, she knew that - ever since the order had come to cast Gabriel out, and they’d obeyed. So many questions, and not one answer. 

God owed them no answers, Uriel knew, and  _ questioning  _ was a dangerous thing to do in Heaven… yet it was all she had been doing for the past several months. All  _ they _ had been doing.

And maybe it was time for them to ask those questions out loud, come what may.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found."  
> \-- Luke 15:32


	20. Song of Solomon 8:6 - Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now they know.

Gabriel did not sleep that night.

He went through the motions to undress, shower, towel himself dry, brush his teeth and all that before he lay down under the sheets and turned off the light, but he did not sleep nor he expected to; what he _did_ expect was for Beelzebub to pay him a visit, and demand he repay his debt.

He had found Lawrence Brown, met him, passed on the message; the deed was done and it was time to repay the Prince of Hell for their help. Repay them by bringing up memories of a time long gone, of _beings_ long gone. 

_“I know you,”_ he’d told Ba’al a long time ago. 

_“No. You do not.”_

Gabriel stared at the ceiling in the dim light coming from the window, the same thoughts running in circles through his mind. What good would knowledge of what had been bring them? Seeking knowledge had caused humanity’s fall in the first place, clearly it was not a good idea. And yet… 

_"Thank you for bringing Daniel back to me,”_ Lawrence Brown had said.

_It has been a long time,_ Gabriel had thought, _he doesn’t know him at all. Why would he care to see the photo of a stranger?_

_“Here he is, dear. My little brother, all grown up.”_

The boy Lawrence remembered was no more, then sister Daniel had known had never been, and yet they _cared._ Yet it _mattered._ There was the regret for never being reunited, the nostalgia, the fondness, the eagerness to know more about the other, what they had been through all those years and the people they had become.

_“He was looking for Alison. That was not me.”_

But he _was_ looking for him, in the end. Looking for someone he’d cared about, whatever their name. Gabriel held onto that thought, and waited. He didn’t need to wait long: soon enough the room was brightened by a sudden flare, a smell of sulphur in the air. 

Gabriel opened his eyes and lifted himself up on his elbows to glance over.

“I have come for you to hold your half of the bargain,” Beelzebub announced, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “You found the man you were seeking. Now I demand you give me the answers I want.”

Gabriel stared at them a few moments, and finally lifted himself up, sitting across the Prince of Hell. Their expression was unreadable, and they were very still. They did, however, blink when Gabriel took their hand. 

“What are you-- how _dare you_ presume you can touch--” they began, but paused when Gabriel bowed his head and pressed the palm of their hand on his forehead. 

“Here. You can see all I remember. And all I have not _yet_ remembered, I suspect,” he told them, his voice barely more than a murmur. The perfect loophole, because what kept Beelzebub from trying themselves was the literal hellish pain their attempts would cause - but seeing someone else’s memories was another matter entirely. 

For a few moments, Beelzebub stared. “The deal was that you’d try and remember so you could _tell_ me--”

“There are things I cannot quite recall. There is-- a block.”

A brief silence, the briefest touch on the very surface of his mind causing the hair on Gabriel’s neck to stand on end. “Fear,” Beelzebub stated. “You are afraid of what this may bring back up.”

Gabriel saw no point in lying, mostly because Beelzebub would see right through it the second they searched his mind. “Yes. But you can force your way through it. I will know, and so will you.”

The hand on his head gripped some of his hair a moment, but it was a loose grasp, and no intrusion in his mind happened just yet. The Lord of the Flies kept staring at him in the dim light, their eyes… ah, they looked completely black. Above them, a few flies buzzed weakly. “What do you think we’ll see?”

“... The truth. Things I may not know how to put into words.”

A scoff. “Not knowing how to put something into words? God’s messenger?”

Gabriel gave a weak smile. “I am only human. And, as you frequently remind me, also an idiot.”

The derisive expression turned into a mildly surprised look, and then something that almost resembled a smile. “I shall not hold back. We made a deal and I will have what I am owed. Do you understand that?”

“I do.”

“Do not attempt to keep me out. It will be easier if you yield.”

_Be still. You’ll make it easier, Gabriel._

He'd struggled, then. He would not now. “I don’t plan to resist.”

Another moment of silence and yes, Gabriel could see it now - Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, hesitated. 

_I am not the only one who is afraid._

He almost remarked on that, but with Beelzebub’s hand resting on his head it would be akin to asking for a third-degree burn to his scalp, so he decided against it. Instead he closed his eyes, and spoke quietly. “Ba’al,” he said, and immediately yielded to the intrusion when the grip on his head tightened, and the one who’d _once_ been Ba’al dove in, searching the shelves of his mind for memories of what had been.

* * *

They saw it all, from the beginning - not the Beginning of Earth, but the true start of everything. 

When God willed light and dark into existence, and then created the angels to build more, filling up that vast nothingness with stars and celestial bodies tracing intricate patterns according to laws of physics that would have been kept together with tape and spit, if not for the fact tape did not exist yet and angels did not spit. 

Or so Gabriel said. Angels simply Did Not Do a lot of things, in his opinion, which he never ceased to offer whether or not he had been consulted, whether or not the angels he spoke to outranked him. Ba’al found it annoying, at first. Then it was… still annoying, but amusing. When you see an Archangel trying to lecture a Seraph who is very clearly holding back from slapping said Archangel with all six wings, it’s hard not to admire the sheer nerve. Or idiocy. 

That had made him stand out; not all angels knew each other all that well - twenty millions of them, spread out across the universe to carry out God’s mysterious will - but soon enough, Ba’al and Gabriel knew each other rather well. Kept each other in check, sort of. And they got along, oddly enough.

Beelzebub saw it all through Gabriel’s mind, old memories tucked away, unraveling before their own eyes. The stars and galaxies they created, the discussions over projects, more banter than would be expected of angels turning into _arguments_ when Ba’al began growing frustrated with the work, the blind obedience as God dished out orders and barely looked their way.

Gabriel was fine with it. Ba’al found they were not. It drove a wedge between them, as Ba’al began to hang with what Gabriel believed to be the _wrong_ crowd. He tried to talk them out of it, they tried to talk him _into_ it, neither would budge and the rest was history. Those were the facts; Beelzebub had been prepared to see the facts. 

What they had not prepared for was that which Gabriel feared to bring back. That which he may not know how to put into words. It hit them like a wave, causing them to recoil, the hand clenching on Gabriel’s hair - not what he had done, not what he had said, but what he had _felt._

Love was what they struck them first, so foreign after so much time they didn’t even recognize it at first. It clung to their throat, almost made them choke, cloying and all-encompassing, the brush of a wing over their head and the rumble of thunder, the light of countless stars and celestial bodies imploding and crashing and coming together into new galaxies. Beneath it all an affection that was milder, quieter, the gentle hum of the vast emptiness of the universe yet to fill.

And then had come the worry. Then had come the confusion, the alarm. Some anger - the despair, some helplessness as war broke out and they were on opposite sides. Fear, short-lived relief. Hope, the last-ditch attempt to get Ba’al back on God’s side, and then the pain like the scorching agony of a dying star. Then regret, then numbness. Relief again, when the memory began to fade. The focus on God’s Great Plan, his mission, the only thing that had meaning.

_We willed ourselves to forget. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt._

_HURTS. IT HURTS._

Beelzebub let out a hoarse cry, and let go of Gabriel’s head as though it had just burned their hand or, rather, wet it with holy water. And for a moment they almost believed there had been holy water involved, that it was where the pain came from, because as Gabriel kept his head bowed something dripped down from his face, onto the crumpled sheets beneath. 

No-- no, it couldn’t be holy water. It would have destroyed them, or harmed them far more severely. But they were still there, they were whole... as long as they ignored the space aching cold inside them which was not, after all, caused by holy water. 

A brief pause, and Beelzebub slowly stood. They forced themselves to smother any expression, allowed themselves no thought on what they had just learned. Not now. Nor later, possibly, or ever. Never to wonder what _they_ had felt, if that sickening wave of _love_ from that idiot’s part had been returned in any capacity. They suspected they could guess the answer, if they tried to, and it was an excellent reason to never try at all. 

_We’re not the same beings we were then._

_I_ _am Lord Beelzebub, not Ba’al. Thank Satan for that._

“... Stop leaking. You fulfilled your half of the bargain, and we’ll speak no more of this,” they said, giving Gabriel their back and preparing to return to Hell, where they could busy themselves torturing some newcomers, or--

_Something_ grasped their wrist to keep them from leaving, a desperate grip, and the ache in their chest grew worse. Beelzebub snarled, seething fury and something else beneath it, a sort of sudden terror. “If you wish to keep that limb you’ll unhand me _now,_ human.”

For a moment, nothing happened; then the grip grew slack, and Beelzebub tore their arm away from Gabriel’s weak grasp. He said nothing, did not argue. The Prince of Hell did not turn to see if he was still weeping. It did not matter. It could not matter.

“You were right,” was the last thing they said, voice cold, before they disappeared in a cloud of fire and sulphur, to return to Hell where they belonged. “This changes _nothing._ ”

* * *

“What questions do you have for the Almighty?”

The Voice of God spoke quite pleasantly, no thunder to it, and even so it seemed to reverberate all around them. It must be their nerves, Michael reasoned. Or maybe the almost completely empty room they were in was not helping matters with its echo. 

… No, it was definitely her nerves. They all were nervous, but Metatron had been summoned and they couldn’t backtrack without looking… rather stupid, which was a prospect Michael was not overly fond of. Not quite as dreaded as the wrath of God, but still one she’d rather avoid.

It was Uriel to speak for all of them. It had been her idea to ask for that meeting, she’d said, and she would ask. 

“We wish to talk about the punishment visited upon the Archangel Gabriel,” Uriel said. 

Metatron raised an eyebrow. “There is no Archangel Gabriel, Archangel Uriel,” he said. 

_There are no back channels, Michael,_ Gabriel had once told her in that exact same tone. Willfully blind, was how they called that kind of thing - angels never did, in theory, _lie_ ; they may imply and omit, but lie - but that was hardly relevant. Whatever Gabriel said, however _willfully_ blind to it, there _had_ been back channels. 

And there had been an Archangel Gabriel. The Voice of God uttering otherwise did not change that, blasphemous as the thought may feel. 

_He never forgot him, unlike us. Of course he would not. He must know all which God knows, or almost, to answer on Their behalf._

Standing by her side, Uriel replied without missing a beat. “My apologies. I mean, the one formerly _known_ as the Archangel Gabriel,” she corrected herself. 

Metatron nodded, like she’d uttered a different name entirely. “Ah, I see. Him. What of his punishment?”

For a moment, none of them said anything; Michael steeled herself, Sandalphon folded his hand, Uriel stood a little more rigidly. They were still on time to turn back, to stop _questioning,_ to be safe. One moment, to give any of them a chance to do just that and leave. 

None of them moved, and Uriel finally spoke up for all of them. “We were wondering if you may share with us the reason why. He always served God loyally.”

Metatron frowned. “Have you not heard me declaring his crimes? He was prideful, and attempted to extinguish the existence of another angel out of anger, without permission, without _consulting_ with God through me. Destroy him for good, erase his very existence. Think of it and tell me, does any of you truly believe he did not deserve his punishment?”

To say that she did would mean calling God’s judgment into question, but Michael had no intention to do it; not least because she knew otherwise. Their question, after all, was an entirely different one. “He did,” she said instead. “But what we do not understand is why he, alone, was cast out on Earth. You know - God _knows_ \- he did not act alone.”

Metatron was silent for a few moments, eyeing all of them. He seemed to be listening to something he alone could hear before he spoke. “... He did not,” he finally replied. “But he led you.”

Michael was just… a _touch_ annoyed that he’d say that like she’d blindly followed orders - none of them had - but as a warrior angel she had learned how to pick her battles and that was not a battle worth picking. Not right now, anyway. “Even so, we actively aided him. Shouldn’t we have received a punishment as well?”

“Have you not?” was the reply, and Michael paused, rather lost, as the Voice of God spoke again. “Here you are, unable to move on, quite literally arguing for your guilt. When have you last been at peace, any of you?”

None of them said anything. They all averted their gaze. It was enough of an answer to Metatron. 

“See? None of you escaped punishment. God simply decreed it would be different; the kind you’d inflict upon yourselves.”

“Not as severe as Gabiel’s.”

“Not as severe?” Metatron seemed thoughtful. “At first, perhaps. But he adapted quite well, did he not? He is doing rather well for himself, and learning quite a few things. Humility, first of all. Of course there is the unfortunate matter of meeting with Beelzebub far more often than it’d be wise, which would be not at all - but all in all, he’s not doing too badly. There is something to be said about being human, it seems, or else they wouldn’t be so immensely attached to their mortal life. Last he was checked on, he seemed more at ease with himself than you are, to be entirely frank.”

That was true, Michael supposed. And yet... Gabriel’s screams etched in her mind, the ripping noises, the blood - it was hard to think of it and believe their discomfort matched that pain in any way. “Why did we not receive his same punishment--”

“Because we didn’t choose it.”

Uriel’s voice rang out suddenly, causing Michael to trail off and Sandalphon to blink. They both turned to see her looking directly at Metatron, her expression hard to read. The Voice of God looked back at her. 

“And what choice do you believe you had?” he asked, not unkindly. 

“More than we thought we did. We have been looking at it from the wrong angle all along, haven’t we?” Uriel said, stepping closer before speaking again. Her voice was even, sure; the voice of someone who hasn’t come to a sudden realization, but rather has thought long and hard over what to say. Uriel had understood _something,_ Michael saw it now; that was why she had wanted them to speak with Metatron. Not so much to ask - just to confirm what she knew.

Sandalphon’s head almost whipped towards Michael, who could only return his gaze with a silent shake of her head. 

_I got nothing, either._

But clearly, Uriel had done the math for all of them.

“It was a test, am I correct?” she was asking. “We assumed our choice was to either cast out Gabriel as ordered, or refuse and Fall for challenging God, into the eternal fire.”

To be entirely honest Michael had not seen much in the way of flames during her visit to Hell, but saying that the rebellious angels had been ‘cast into eternal fire’ just had a nice, intimidating ring to it, so she said nothing. 

Plus, that… really wasn't the important bit of what Uriel was saying.

“But there was a third option,” she was going on. “Not obey, not refuse, but argue that we deserved his same punishment as Gabriel, for we were guilty of the same crimes.”

Oh, Michael thought. _Oh._

Sandalphon’s mouth fell open, but he said nothing; only later would Michael know he’d told Gabriel something very similar, last time he’d seen him on Earth. 

_We could have refused and-- gone with you._

It was something that had crossed Michael’s mind as well, but they both had thought of it in terms of rebelling to God. What they’d never thought was that perhaps, that had been an option they had been expected to choose. One they _ought_ to have chosen. 

_It was a test, am I correct?_

_And we failed,_ Michael thought. _God tested us and we failed._

As the thought rang through her head, a deep sense of shame in her chest, Metatron tilted his head on one side. 

“You obeyed God’s order. Surely, by definition, that is a correct choice.”

“We didn’t do as we were told out of obedience only,” Uriel replied. “We had _doubts._ But we followed through because we did not want to suffer his same fate, even if we knew that if he deserved it, then so did we.”

“Out of fear. Fear of God is not unwise,” the Voice of God pointed out. “Had you made the choice to share his punishment, God would not have intervened to spare you as They did when Abraham didn’t get the joke and tried to truly slash his son’s throat on Moriah.”

“Ah, that,” Sandalphon muttered. “Gabriel told me he got there just on time. Didn’t think the boy would be right in the head ever again.”

Metatron gave him an unimpressed look, clearly about as fond of being interrupted as Michael was fond of coming across as foolish, which was to say not at all. “As I was _saying,_ had you requested to share his punishment, all of you would have been stripped of your wings and cast to Earth as mortals along with him. Quite inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient, but _fair._ It would have been the right choice, wouldn’t it?” Uriel insisted, and Metatron fell silent for a few moments; then slowly, solemnly, he nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “It was indeed a test, and submitting yourself to his same punishment would have been the right choice.”

“But we didn’t,” Sandalphon spoke, his voice oddly weak.

“No. You did not,” Metatron replied. “But no one is infallible except for God.”

“What can we do to set things right?” Uriel asked, only for Metatron to shake his head. 

“Nothing. The choice has been made and cannot be unmade. Gabriel received his punishment, and you received yours. As far as the Almighty is concerned, this matter is closed.”

Having done wrong was a novel, unpleasant concept to Michael; having done wrong and knowing they couldn’t _fix_ it was even worse. It wasn’t something they were equipped, or even _meant,_ to cope with.

“We didn’t _know_ it was a test!” Sandalphon protested, gaining himself a long look from Metatron. 

“... One could argue that is the point of a test,” he said flatly. 

Sandalphon had the good grace to blush in mild embarrassment, but tried to argue again. “We would have never _done_ such a thing if we hadn’t been given an order and-- it was-- how were we supposed to know what the right thing to do was by ourselves?”

“The same way humans are expected to, every day,” was the reply. The Voice of God turned his gaze back on Uriel, then on Michael. “Do you have any more questions?”

Michael swallowed. “Is there any _real_ chance Gabriel may return to Heaven one day? Perhaps after his mortal life has ended?”

The Voice of God smiled. “As per every mortal,” he said, “that will entirely depend on the choices he makes.”

* * *

It was early morning when Gabriel walked into St. Joseph’s Church. 

It wasn’t the first church he’d come across since he’d set out wandering aimlessly through the city, but he was partial to Catholic ones for purely esthetic reasons. That, and the deep reverence towards Maryam which he rather appreciated, as giving her the Good News was his most well-known accomplishment. 

Looking back now, he was rather sorry for how badly he’d freaked out. The PR department had taken care of that in the Scriptures, though, and the portrayals of the event had since widely matched the official version. Although, looking at the statue before him now, Gabriel had to wonder how come she was always so _pale_ in all of them.

The church was seemingly empty, and he almost walked up to the pews in the first row before hesitating, staring at the altar. He’d been cast out of Heaven, did he truly have the right to be there?

But the consecrated ground did not burn him, nor did the holy water when he dared dip his fingers in it. It was heartening, and in the end Gabriel stopped at a bench midway, to the side, and knelt. He clasped his hand together, bowed his head until his forehead rested on them, and prepared to pray. 

Except he did not, because he couldn’t find the words to. The sense of loss was overwhelming, ancient and yet so _new,_ as though it had only just happened that night; a wound he'd forgotten was there had been ripped open, and it made the pain of losing his wings and identity almost pale by comparison. And, as for his wings, there could be no getting back what was lost. Ba’al was no more. 

_This changes nothing._

And not just Ba’al, either. Many others who’d Fallen were angels he’d known by name, cared about. His brethren, like Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, everyone else. Half of the Heavenly host gone, the loss unimaginable; he hadn’t known all of them, but still so many. Of course they’d needed to forget; of course Satan had decreed there would be _pain_ for any demon attempting to recall what had been. If this was how it felt like, how could they ever have picked arms against each other again as per God’s Great Plan?

_“Is that the Ineffable Plan as well?”_

_“ Well, they're the same thing.”_

_“You don’t know.”_

Gabriel swallowed and tried to muster enough voice to speak - to pray, beg for relief, for guidance, anything - but someone else spoke before he did, causing him to recoil. 

“Gabriel.”

It was a voice he knew, though not one he had expected to hear. He lifted his head and drew in a long breath before he looked up. “Uriel,” he greeted her, quietly. He managed a smile; he’d met and spoken with Michael and Sandalphon since his exile, but not with her. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” she replied, and knelt next to him. She hesitated a moment, gaze lingering on the dark shadows under his eyes after a sleepless night. “How are you?”

Gabriel shrugged, knowing he was… not prepared to speak of it. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. “... Holding up,” he finally said. 

“Ah.” A brief silence. “... Your message has been passed on to your friend. He was pleased.”

The smile that curled Gabriel’s lips was a little more sincere, this time. “I’m glad.”

“He has some… colorful language.”

A chuckle. “Heh. Should have warned you.”

Another brief silence, then Uriel let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry.”

He glanced back at her, taken aback. “What?”

“For what we did to you.”

Right. That. Gabriel ignored the faint ache where his wings should have been, and shook his head. “God ordered it. You had no choice.”

“But we did.”

“You’d have Fallen. It was no real choice.”

“It was a test, and we failed it,” Uriel spoke up, her voice not as firm as it usually was. Under Gabriel’s surprised gaze, she drew in a deep breath, gaze fixed ahead, on the altar. Every word she spoke seemed to leave her mouth with great effort of will, like a shameful confession. It was, in a way: angels do not fail. Angels are not _supposed_ to fail.

“We knew that if you deserved what you got, then so did we. We should have argued we deserved the same. We should have been cast out on Earth with you.”

Something gripped Gabriel’s throat, a different sort of pain. “Uriel…”

“We should have faced the consequences with you, and we didn’t,” she cut him off, and sighed. “We failed the test, we failed God, and we failed you. We’re sorry.”

For a few moments Gabriel said nothing; he remembered the terror, the incredulity, their grip on him and the plea not to make it harder than it already was. He remembered the blinding pain, the weakness that pervaded him as he walked through the night seeking shelter, bleeding from wounds he dared not think of. All of it still filled his nightmares, from time to time.

And he found he could not bear to wish it on anybody. 

_I would have failed that test, too._

“... I am glad you failed,” he found himself saying, his own eyes turning to the altar. He realized the truth of it only as it left his lips. “I am glad you were not cast out with me.”

He didn’t glance at her, and he didn’t know if she looked at him at all either, but then her hand was resting on his own joined ones, and squeezed. Not a _gentle_ squeeze by human standards, but Gabriel knew it was hard for her to dose her divine strength in a way that wouldn’t shatter bones, so he clenched his teeth and said nothing of it.

“There is a chance for you to come to Heaven, after your mortal life runs its course. It has to do with choices.”

Ah, of course. The old-fashioned, mortal way. Taken as he was searching for Lawrence, Gabriel had almost forgotten about that entire spiel about making the right choices, whatever those choices were. He still did not know what God wanted of him.

_“Don’t wonder what’s in it for you, mortal,”_ Metatron had said. _“That way of thinking taints your every choice, and leads to Hell and Hell alone.”_

_“I think you have figured out more than you think,”_ Aziraphale had told him. He still had no idea what he was even talking about.

“Well. I suppose I’ll try my best,” he said in the end, smiling weakly. It was all a mortal could do, after all.

Uriel nodded. “... I am aware that Beelzebub has been bothering you. They want to claim your soul. Any moment, you only need to call our names and we’ll come to chase them away from you.”

The weak smile on Gabriel’s face faded. “... There may be no need. Perhaps I’ve seen the last of them,” he said, and the thought gave him no relief whatsoever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame.”  
> – Song of Solomon 8:6


End file.
